Baker Street Boys: An A-Z Almanac of HurtComfort
by syfygal
Summary: An A-Z collection of Hurt/Comfort tales featuring the Baker Street Boys. A is for Anaphylaxis - wherein Sherlock discovers he is allergic to wasps, much to John's dismay.
1. Anaphylaxis

_**A/N:**_ **Yes! A new story! I have a lot of ideas banging around in my head, and I will try to be fair in updates of both. I've seen a lot of A-Z stories, but I'd like to try my hand. Mostly, I'd like to see if I can actually get to Z.**

 **Also, I really do love the softer moments between the boys (how about that hug, huh?) so, I'm indulging…sue me. They will each get alternating letters, and will both be present. Appearances from supporting characters will also occur.**

 **As ever, I do not own anything…that privilege belongs to ACD and most recently, the incredible Moffatt and Gatiss.**

 **Please enjoy!**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Slight humour

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 **A is for Anaphylaxis**

 _Wherein Sherlock discovers he is allergic to wasps, much to John's dismay._

* * *

'We have a wasps nest,' John stated conversationally as he stirred his morning tea. He had woken to the lazy _plunk_ of the insects colliding with the window; and for some reason, during the vague process of rousing; John thought that this news may be of some interest to the Consulting Detective. Lack of a case, and the subsequent boredom that followed - made living with the sociopath more unbearable than usual.

Sherlock did not respond. He was stretched languidly on the sofa, eyes shut and fingers steepled beneath his chin, pointedly ignoring his flatmate.

Irritated, John entered the living room and glared at the insufferable man.

'Did you hear me, Sherlock?' He asked, sipping his tea.

The Detective heaved a very put upon sigh. 'Yes. Wasps. _Dull_.'

John shrugged. 'Dunno. I just thought you could do an experiment – if you were bored.' He offered.

A single, quicksilver eye popped open and glared scathingly at the doctor. 'What type of experiment would _you_ suggest, pray tell?'

John just sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're the genius, I'm sure you can think of something. I'm heading down to Tesco's for some milk. Need anything?'

'Ginger snaps…and methylated spirits.' He shot back, eye firmly shut once more.

John drained the last of his tea, set his mug in the sink and hurried out the door. God only knew the amount of damage he could do in half an hour.

* * *

It turned out that the prospect of an experiment, no matter how mundane, was too much for Sherlock to resist and John's return to Baker Street found the lanky detective hanging halfway out his bedroom window with a pair of kitchen tongs and a fly swat.

The doctor stopped, closed his eyes for a second and took a deep, steadying breath.

'Sherlock!' He called as approached the door to 221B, craning his neck and smirking as the detective brandished the fly swat in an attempt to deter the insects. The man in question froze and shifted his gaze downwards to the doctor standing in the street, arms laden with groceries. 'What the actual _hell_ are you doing?'

' _Experiment,'_ he ground out through clenched teeth - giving the swat another exaggerated flourish as the wasps buzzed angrily around his face. The papery mound looked to be just a little out of reach, despite Sherlock's height and truth be told, it was rather an amusing sight – dark curls mussed as the madman dangled precariously out the window, snapping the tongs.

'I thought wasps were dull,' John called back, swallowing a smirk as Sherlock flinched away. Obviously stung – and serves him right too, for not being more careful.

'John, you _idiot_. Wipe that smug look of your face and come up at once. I may require your services,'

The doctor quirked an eyebrow and continued to watch as the harried man wiggled his long body back into the room. Panting heavily as he righted himself, he looked down at John's laughing face.

'Oh shut _up!'_ He bellowed, making the doctor laugh harder as he slammed the window shut. Shaking his head, John unlocked the front door and climbed the stairs to the flat.

'Sherlock, what did you need me for?' John called out as he unpacked the groceries, slipping the milk into the fridge, quite a bit away from the jar of tongues. After a couple of minutes, he heard a shuffling that indicated the approach of his flatmate and he grinned widely with every intention of giving him shit. John turned, and whatever joke that had formed on the tip of his tongue, dissolved at the sight of Sherlock, red-faced and wheezing in the doorway.

' _Jesus,_ Sherlock!' John swore, abandoning the groceries and hurrying to his friend. The situation, which was supposed to be hilarious and possibly a little uncomfortable for the Detective, was suddenly dangerous.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, his dexterous fingers fluttering around his throat as his mouth opened and closed rapidly.

Well, it was a good thing John was a doctor and all.

Curling a hand around the closest bicep, John led the taller man slowly into the living room to sit on the sofa and knelt in front of him, observing the symptoms.

'Johnnn,' he gasped hoarsely through tightening airways, as he slumped back, positively gasping for air. 'I think I may be allergic to wathpth.'

Now the lisp _would_ have been funny, under different circumstances – but as it stood, it meant that Sherlock's tongue was swelling and with the gasping for breath, it was really a bit not good.

'Ok Sherlock, relax. I'm going to call an ambulance.' John said firmly, pressing his fingers to Sherlock's wrist. The detective shook his head, eyes rolling madly before he pitched forward and vomited down John's jumper.

There was no disgust, he was a doctor after all, and had been covered in much worse. No, he was frightened, because Sherlock's eyes were pleading and he was reaching out to John, entrusting his friend to ease the discomfort. Quickly divesting himself of the soiled garment, he brushed the damp curls from the detective's brow and gave him a tight smile.

'Hey mate, ok…I'm going to check my kit. If I can find some epinephrine and you start to improve, we can forgo the hospital. If not, you're going – no bloody arguments. You're in anaphylactic shock and this could _kill_ you. Understand?' John explained, trying to ignore his friends whimper as he slumped back onto the cushions. John ran his eyes once more over the younger man, before rushing over to his chair and retrieving the medical kit. As far as he could recall, he had at least three EpiPen's floating around – he liked to be prepared for every eventuality. He groped around his bag blindly, gaze never leaving his gasping patient. Crying in triumph, he clutched the adrenaline in his fist and stumbled back to his best friend.

'Oi, Sherlock…you keep your eyes on me, eh? I'll get you sorted,' John soothed, pressing his fingers once more to a rapidly thrumming pulse.

The Detective listed sideways and John scooted forwards, slowing his descent. The rattle in Sherlock's breath was quite concerning and as he popped the cap off the EpiPen, John considered calling an ambulance anyway.

Cursing at the man's lack of response, the doctor jammed the pen into Sherlock's thigh and depressed the plunger.

He checked his watch and waited; a second dose ready to go as a precaution.

Minutes passed slowly as Sherlock continued to wheeze, and John was mildly shocked when the self-proclaimed sociopath reached out to grasp his undershirt.

John gave his wrist a brief squeeze and pulled his phone out, ready to dial 999 – holding his friend's puffy gaze.

Sherlock's pulse was still racing and when, after ten minutes, his breathing hadn't improved, the doctor administered another dose of epinephrine.

Lips now tinged blue form lack of oxygen, the detective's eyes rolled back, lids fluttering and threatening to slip shut.

John swore, and gave a hollow cheek a firm slap. 'Stay with me Sherlock, or I call an ambulance.' He warned, giving his friend a soft smile when that quicksilver gaze returned, pupils blown in panic. 'You're ok mate…take a couple of deep breaths for me, yeah?'

Sherlock gave him a quick nod and obeyed, nostrils flaring as he inhaled and lips trembling as the breath was blown out. The wheeze sounded like it was abating as Sherlock's inhalations became deeper and steadier.

'There you go, that's it…feeling better?' John asked, assisting the younger man into a more comfortable position.

'Yes John, thank you.' The detective finally spoke, quite softly but very genuinely appreciative of the assistance.

Doctor Watson gave his leg a pat and climbed stiffly to his feet.

'Cuppa tea?' he asked, fingers lingering at Sherlock's pulse.

'Please,' Sherlock confirmed, noting John's hesitance to leave the room. 'I will not expire in the time it takes to boil the kettle, John. I could continue to speak as you work, if that would make you feel better.

'Please,' the doctor replied quickly, not missing the bewildered look on his friend's face as he turned to the kitchen.

He made a mental note to phone pest control in the morning. There would be no further experiments involving wasps.

* * *

 **Please review if convenient. If not convenient, review anyway.**


	2. Broken Bone

**A/N:** **Thank you to all whom reviewed/favorited! I love to hear that you're enjoying this. Just remember, feedback gives aspiring writers encouragement :)**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Adventure

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 **B is for Broken Bone**

 _The case which John takes a nasty stumble whilst in pursuit of a criminal and breaks a bone._

* * *

It had to be the Storm of the Century – of course it bloody did. The rain was torrential, roads were flooded and thunder echoed through the night with such alarming regularity, it was like the planet was fit to shake apart. It was a night to be curled up on the sofa with a blanket and a good book, not chasing criminals across hazardous rooftops.

John Watson was not a young man anymore, and despite his sense of adventure and thirst for danger, he very much did _not_ appreciate being dragged out of the cosy depths of 221B to pursue a murder across London at two in the morning.

He didn't quite understand why he hadn't just told Sherlock where to stick his early morning wake up call, but while his mind was screaming at the detective to _fuck off_ , he was already half dressed – heart pounding in anticipation.

Now, Sherlock was quite a bit ahead of him, and the bad man that had started all of this was further ahead still.

John had lost count of how many buildings they had leapt across, following the detective as he soared gracefully over the gaps, Belstaff a flutter like the wings of an overgrown bat – but his energy was starting to seriously flag. Add that to the utterly _abysmal_ weather and it was the perfect recipe for disaster. He kept thinking that, one of these days, Sherlock would miss a ledge, or land on a weathervane and impale himself – and whilst lost within his turbulent thoughts, John completely missed the hidden shelf at the edge of the building.

The problem with racing around London with Sherlock; was that John never spared a thought for himself. He had been a Soldier in a warzone, he knew how to do this shit, thank you very much. So it came as quite a shock to him when his foot caught on the precarious ledge as he was about to jump.

A wave of terror washed over him as he was suddenly airborne, and it was just pure _luck_ and possibly a bit of prayer, that the next building was slightly lower and the alley that may well have been his deathbed, was narrower than most.

It didn't mean that his landing wasn't rough.

When one takes a fall, it is the body's natural instinct, a kneejerk reaction, to _break_ said fall; so as the roof rushed up rapidly to meet his face, John flung an arm out to minimize the damage to his body – and maximised it on a single point instead.

He hit the floor, bloody _hard_.

The upside was, he was very much _not_ dead – but that was really the only thing going for him, because _fuck…_ the **pain**.

Fire lanced across his clavicle, leaving absolutely to room for coherent thought as he curled into himself, vision greying at the edge. Dimly, he remembers hearing a dull _crack_ on impact and as a doctor, he realised that while the pain was bad now, it would be a helluva lot worse once the adrenaline wore off. The rain wasn't helping matters either.

'JOHN!' he heard Sherlock bellow over the sound of the storm. Fantastic…he could see no possible way that this night could get any worse.

He didn't have the energy to respond, the pain was nauseating and _Godammit_ , he should have told the detective to piss off the minute he came barging into his room.

The next call of his name was slightly higher in pitch – a question, and a rather frantic one that was a lot closer than it had been seconds ago.

'Mmmmfffffuuuccckkkk,' he managed ineloquently, eyes screwed up and jaw clenched to stop the scream from clawing out of his throat.

Brightness flashed across the lids of his tightly closed eyes and John couldn't be sure whether it was lighting or if the pain was doing stupid things to his brain.

Harried footsteps approached rapidly and if John thought that Sherlock couldn't _possibly_ beg for another punch in the fucking mouth (contextually, of course) – he ruined the moment by opening that great, ignorant word hole on his face and speaking.

'John, _do_ try to keep up!' The detective hissed scathingly. 'The criminal has escaped my grasp, because you managed to go and do something as mundane as _trip._ '

The Doctor took a deep breath, and remembered the Hippocratic Oath: _Do no harm._

Instead, he rolled over with a grunt and opened his eyes, flinching at finding Sherlock's face mere inches from his.

'I can kill you without leaving a _trace_.' John offered, trying to sound angry – but his voice was inexplicably weak and shaky.

'John…are you alright?' Sherlock asked, not _quite_ concerned – but certainly getting there.

He opened his mouth to reply, but vomited instead.

Sherlock jumped back and in the gloom, John could see those quicksilver eyes flicking over his person, cataloguing symptoms and freezing close to John's neck.

Then the concern came, and didn't _that_ just increase the shock factor.

Hesitantly, dexterous fingers fluttered around the collar of his jumper before lifting it gingerly and peering beneath.

Their gazes met and John was a little put off by what he saw in Sherlock's eyes.

 _Sentiment._

'You're hurt.' He stated; his baritone aquiver with worry.

 _No Shit Sherlock,_ John wanted to reply, but instead – stupidly – he nodded. Agony sheared across his clavicle and everything went away for a moment, a choked cry dying on his lips as his eyes rolled back.

He can't have been out for very long, but it was long enough for Sherlock to become frantic.

The storm raged around the pair, showing no sign of abating, and for once in his life – the Consulting Detective had no idea what to do.

Through the haze of pain, John noticed Sherlock's discomfort and his rage at the young man abated somewhat.

'Sh'lock,' he stuttered through chattering teeth – with the shock and cold, the Doctor was slowly becoming useless. He tried to sit, to take charge of the situation, because clearly, Sherlock felt out of his depth. This was something that only occurred rarely and John found himself mildly humbled that Sherlock cared enough for him to show his concern so openly.

The sitting thing didn't go as smoothly as planned, because now, he was able to see what had gotten the "sociopath" so riled up. His beige jumper sodden with not just rain – but a rather sizable swath of blood. John tipped back dizzily; distantly grateful when Sherlock gently pressed into his back to stop him from falling the rest of the way.

'Fractured clavicle,' the detective murmured shakily. 'Open, I'm afraid.'

 _Yes, well…fuck, actually._

John had seen many gruesome things, hell; he'd amputated limbs, performed hours of bloody surgery in the heat of the desert and had taken a bullet, to boot. While that had been quite exceptionally painful, a bone prodding through ones skin, grating nerve and muscle and flesh with every breath, certainly overshadowed his previous wound. Perhaps it was because he had received pain relief almost immediately from a field kit.

The Doctor… _Captain_ …tilted his head back, peered at this friend in the dark and bloody _whimpered._

Sherlock stiffened, and hesitantly brought a hand up to rest on John's brow.

'Easy John…deep breaths, you're in shock and we need to get back to Baker Street,' the detective spoke gently and reassuringly – which didn't half freak John out.

'Hospital,' John groaned brokenly, surprised out how much he wanted fucking Morphine right now.

Sherlock nodded in the gloom. 'Yes John, I know it hurts. I _know…_ but the roads are flooded. I can easily get you home from here, where I will be able to administer decent pain medication and phone my brother for assistance, but a hospital, even Bart's, will be quite a bit more challenging.'

' _Fuck_ …whatever Sherlock…just _please_ get me out of this bloody rain!' John spat, not even wanting to consider how they would get off the roof in the first place.

Sherlock didn't reply, he just tucked his biceps under John's armpits and heaved.

John didn't stay conscious long enough to endure the trip home.

* * *

He was warm, when he woke. Warm and floaty, the insistent pain at his collar had dulled a bit – for which John was immensely grateful. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock hanging over him, his broad palms and nimble fingers press firmly against where the bone had been poking through his skin. They were slick with blood.

The Doctor giggled, thinking distantly that it should hurt a lot more than it did. The detective's brow pinched with worry as their gaze met.

'John, I apologise – I simply cannot get you proper medical care at this stage. The power has gone out and we have no signals on our phones. Lightning must have struck the nearest signal tower, I'm afraid.' He explained clinically, peeling his hand away and examining the wound.

'S'ok mate…ughhhh fuck,' John replied, his head lolling to the side. He was on the floor of the living room at 221B, enclosed within a nest of blankets and situated next to the fireplace…with barely anything on.

'You took my clothes off.' John slurred. 'People will talk.'

Sherlock merely smirked. 'Yes, well next time I shall leave you to freeze, if you'd prefer.'

The Doctor shook his head and grunted as the movement sent spikes of agony skittering across his collarbone. His vision flickered briefly and he concluded that the pain would only stay dull if he kept still.

'John, you need to keep still,' Sherlock berated almost soothingly. 'You've been unconscious for three hours and the pain medication is wearing off. I will prepare your next dose but you must not _move._ '

John blinked his acquiescence, and the lanky Detective clambered to his feet, disappearing for a few minutes. His clavicle was now throbbing insistently and the doctor had to breathe deep to keep himself from crying out. A pitiful noise scraped the back of his throat just as Sherlock returned, wearing a look of unease as he swept down and prepared John's arm for injection. Of course the bastard had figured out where he kept his emergency stash of morphine – squirreled away on the off chance that Sherlock injured himself and refused the hospital.

'John, I'm – ah…terribly sorry for waking you this morning and insisting you come along. It was wrong of me and my rash decision got you hurt.' As he depressed the plunger, John felt the warmth of the drug spread through his veins and numb the fire near his throat.

'Jesus, Sherlock,' John sighed in relief and closed his eyes for a moment. 'You always manage to surprise me. You're showing compassion to another human being in suffering. Is it facetious to admit I'm proud of you?'

Sherlock snorted, and gave his wrist a little squeeze.

'Dear Watson, you seem to forget that you aren't just _any_ human being. You are my friend and despite my attempts at keeping you at arm's length, you have unknowingly created yourself a room within my Mind Palace. You ought to feel special.'

Oh, he did. That was truly something to revel in, Sherlock admitting he cared for someone.

John snorted and gave a quirk of his lips.

'You're going to claim this never happened, when I'm well. I am delirious with pain, after all.'

The Detective gave him a rare, genuine smile. 'Of course I am, John…but for now I'll indulge your sentimental side.'

Slowly, John drifted off – confident in the fact that Sherlock would look after him.

* * *

 **Just a quick side note – not all of these will have visible conclusions. As above, obviously Sherlock will get him medical care when it's possible.**


	3. Carbon Monoxide

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Just a lot of Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 _ **Guest Appearance:**_ DI Lestrade

 **C is for Carbon Monoxide**

 _Sherlock underestimates a criminal and John is almost too late_

* * *

He was going to kill him.

No explanations or warnings _whatsoever –_ the minute John got his hands on Sherlock Holmes, he was going to _throttle_ the bastard.

Jaw clenched, he tightened his grip on the borrowed pistol and shifted stealthily through the abandoned warehouse, mindful of potential hazards.

John turned, briefly met Lestrade's gaze and nodded. They both heard it, the rumble of an idling engine – echoing through the large space.

It had taken longer than it probably should have, figuring out what happened to Sherlock after he disappeared off the face of the planet. He was only supposed to be gone for an hour at most, so when he didn't return to Baker Street – John was in a cab heading for New Scotland Yard faster than you could say _high functioning sociopath._

Of course, it had to be Sherlock – digging around where he bloody well shouldn't and getting on the wrong side of the wrong people. Luckily, his attack had been witnessed, and they were able to track his whereabouts using CCTV, traffic cams and the GPS on Sherlock's phone.

The doctor tried not to think of the worst possible outcome, but his heart was pounding and his hands slick with sweat as they moved through the interconnecting buildings, closer to the sound of the vehicle.

Picking up their pace, the Doctor and the _actual_ Detective slid around a shoddily constructed cinder block wall and froze; eyes wide at the sight before them.

It was the car that Sherlock had been bundled into after being clocked in the skull with a baseball bat – exhaust stuffed with a wad of fabric and all four windows thoroughly sealed with silver duct tape.

John didn't even need to look to know that Sherlock was in that car.

' _Shit…SHIT!'_ He gasped, barely registering the sharp intake of breath from the man beside him. John cleared the distance in less than twenty seconds, hoping to every deity thought to be in existence that they weren't too late. He slid to a stop once he reached the chassis of the vehicle, peering through the grubby window - throat constricting at the sight of Sherlock, sprawled against the backseat. Blood coated the right side of his face, but he was blinking rapidly, meaning that while he was thankfully still awake, he wasn't far from slipping away. John gave the handle an experimental jiggle, unsurprised to find it locked. The movement did not go unnoticed by the Consulting Detective, and his sleepy eyes met John's gaze – tired and resigned as his head slumped back to the seat.

'NO! Don't you fucking _dare_ , Sherlock Holmes!' The doctor bellowed, vaguely noticing the sound of Greg's voice, speaking rapidly to someone on his handheld radio. 'You keep your bloody eyes open, you hear me?' His voice cracked with panic and he turned to Lestrade, eyes frantic and desperate.

'Ambulance is twenty minutes out,' he supplied, brow furrowed as he scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw.

John growled.

'Not bloody good enough, Lestrade! If we don't get him out of there in the next five, he's fucking _dead._ '

The man was both livid and hysterical – a combination of conflicting emotions he had not experienced in some time. His heart was thudding wildly as he glanced back to the window, watching helplessly as long limbs began to twitch. Sherlock's eyes were now stubbornly shut, and John could almost see the tinge of blue at the edge of his lips from lack of oxygen.

'No, fuck _this_. He does _not_ get to do this to me.' John murmured thickly, his throat tight with emotion. This was his _Best Friend_ – despite the attitude and ridiculous superiority complex, and if Sherlock died tonight, so help him – John would bloody follow.

Gritting his teeth, he swung his arm back and drove his fist against the window and _Jesus_ , it hurt. The glass didn't shatter, hell – it didn't even crack. John took a shuddering breath and punched again…and again and again until finally, _finally,_ the glass gave way, slicing his flesh to ribbons. The Doctor wasted no time reaching in and fumbling with the lock, hands shaking. He wasn't normally one to lose his cool in a serious situation, but Sherlock was not responding to John's desperate cries as he wrenched the door.

John could feel the DI hovering, and although the doctor knew he meant well, he needed fucking space.

' _Move_ , I need to get him out,' He snarled, feeling very – not territorial exactly – but protective and a bit primal. He would apologise profusely later, when Sherlock wasn't in any danger of snuffing it. Greg didn't argue, but he did step away – grey eyes awash with concern as John's compact frame reached into the backseat, gripped the lanky man by his Belstaff and dragged him from the vehicle. He watched in morbid fascination as the doctor divested Sherlock of the oversized coat and undid the first three buttons of his shirt before rolling him onto his side.

John looked up, eyes wild as they met Greg's gaze. 'I need your watch,' he snapped, pressing his fingers against Sherlock's carotid and frowning at the racing pulse he found there.

Lestrade all but sprinted over, dropping to a crouch next to the doctor and offering his wrist. Neither of them spoke for a minute, the only sound that could be heard was the cough and splutter of the idling engine. Greg would turn it off in a minute.

'Pulse is too rapid – no, forget the bloody car for now Greg, I need to time the seizure,' John barked as Sherlock stiffened, his back curving unnaturally.

It was bloody _horrible,_ watching the young man convulse before them. John was sure he would be having nightmares for weeks – but he couldn't turn away, couldn't block the deep grunts of strain coming Sherlock's tightened throat. Lips wet with bloody foam, Sherlock finally stilled – two minutes forty.

The sharp smell of urine hit them and the doctor made a mental note _not_ to tell his friend what had happened.

Greg heaved a sigh of relief, but frowned when he noticed that John was still impossibly tense.

'Get a bloody ETA on that Ambulance Lestrade,' He ordered in a tone he had not used since serving in Afghanistan.

The DI stepped back, watching John as he rolled Sherlock on to his back and tore the shirt open. 'I'm _losing him_ , Greg! I need…Jesus…' he turned back to Lestrade, cobalt eyes swimming. 'God, I need _help_ – tell them to bloody _hurry_.'

The Detective swallowed the lump in his throat as John began compressions.

He clicked the call button on his radio and spoke rapidly to dispatch, flinching when he heard a rib crack under the strain.

'You great bloody _bastard_ , don't you bloody go and leave me!' John growled; sweat dripping from his brow as he bent low to breathe for his friend.

He didn't even pause when Greg dashed out to meet the Ambulance and he was still going strong, pumping and breathing and _begging_ Sherlock to stay with him when they returned. The DI pulled him away with some difficulty when the paramedics took over, charging the paddles and pressing them to the slim, unmoving chest.

John was breathing raggedly, muttering a litany of strangled ' _Oh God's_ ' while the DI held him back, feeling the doctor trembling beneath his hands – fists clenching and unclenching sporadically.

After the third shock, the paramedic's declared success and John slumped limply against Lestrade's shoulder.

'Fuck. _Fuck…'_ he gasped, clutching the fabric at his chest. The relief was dizzying and completely overwhelming.

'John, c'mon mate – you're riding with him. The medics need to get you on oxygen.' Greg murmured, guiding the doctor from the building, behind the gurney that carried Sherlock.

They made it out of the warehouse and into the clear evening when John's legs buckled.

'Shit, John!' Lestrade swore, halting the doctor's descent. The DI was shocked that John's reaction had been this severe – but then, maybe he shouldn't have been. Doctor Watson was the first person that Sherlock ever opened up to and the pair seemed to have formed quite the bond. He was not to know everything that went on when the pair weren't working a case for him. It was shocking and also rather awe-inspiring to witness the depth of such a friendship close up.

The medics loaded Sherlock into the back of the Ambulance and when John could keep his feet beneath him, he followed dutifully, Lestrade close behind to catch him if he fell under the weight of what had just happened.

He almost felt sorry for what Sherlock would have to endure when he woke.

* * *

He didn't wake slowly, like in the movies – with a fluttering of lids and a slight exhale of breath. Sherlock flew into consciousness with a strangled cry, the unfamiliar tug of panic fluttering in his chest. A bandaged hand grasped his forearm, rubbing soothing circles with a stubby thumb as his bleary eyes darted around the room.

'Sherlock…come on mate, look at me – easy now,' the gentle cadence of John's voice filtered through the fear and confusion, leeching those horrible feelings away.

His muscles instantly relaxed and he allowed the doctor to ease him back against the pillows. When Sherlock settled enough to deduce that he was lying on a hospital bed, the gentle _whoosh_ against his face coming from a plastic oxygen mask, he lifted a heavy hand to move it aside.

'John.' He breathed, his eyes landing on the man sitting anxiously by his bed. He was tense; that much was obvious by the set of is shoulders and the redness around his eyes. Wayward hands must have pulled and tugged at his flaxen hair, because it was mussed and sticking up at odd angles. 'John.' He repeated tiredly, reaching out – feeling uncharacteristically sentimental.

He can vaguely remember the look of terror on his friend's face, just before he lost consciousness and it was slightly heartening to know that the man before him would move the earth to save him.

'Fucking _Christ..._ Sherlock,' John muttered tiredly, rubbing his eyes. 'You…utter _bastard_.'

Sherlock didn't react; he just stared at the doctor, at his wrapped hand – trying to sort through the emotions he was so openly displaying – _fearworrypainexhaustion,_ rolling off him in waves.

He tried to shift but was halted by a trembling hand on his chest. 'Easy does it…I broke a few ribs,' John admitted softly, meeting his confused gaze.

The man sighed and stood quickly, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

'You _died_ , Sherlock. You were dead and I couldn't bring you back…' John shuddered, sucked in a shaky breath and sat down as quickly as he had stood, face hidden by his hands.

The detective didn't even want to roll his eyes at the earnest display of sentiment. Instead, he reached out – long fingers scraping at the edge of the bed, catching John's attention.

Eyes wide, the doctor shuffled forward and reached out, curling his fingers around Sherlock's wrist.

The gesture was enough.

 _I'm alive, thank you._

'Your hand…' Sherlock finally managed; eyeing the hastily applied bandage. It appeared that he had not yet seen to his own injures

John snorted and gave him a watery smile. 'Some broken fingers and a couple of stitches, I expect.'

He didn't need John to tell him how he obtained those injuries – the pattern of the bloodstains where enough for him to determine that the doctor had punched his way into the car.

'Thank you,' he whispered almost reverently, and John's eyes snapped to his once more, moist and shining.

'Next time you pull something like that on me Sherlock Holmes, I will _fucking_ follow you. Do you hear me?'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to gasp in surprise at the utter determination in the older man's voice.

He swallowed thickly. 'Don't be stupid, John – I know it is difficult, but –'

'No. Shut up Sherlock. I _cannot_ function without you. You're fucking asshole, you leave body parts in the bloody fridge and you grow mould in the bathroom… _on purpose,_ but despite your maddening flaws, you're the brother I never bloody had and if I ever find the bastard that did this to you, I'll tear his _fucking_ throat out.' John spat, each word managing to imprint into Sherlock's Mind Palace, never to be erased.

'John, my brother-' Sherlock tried to interject.

'Your _brother_ is more of a fucking moron than you are,' John huffed.

Sherlock offered a stiff smile and clamped his own fingers around John's wrist.

'Your words hearten me, John Watson and while I can't promise I'll cease to be an insufferable bastard, I _will_ try not to get myself killed in future, only if you can return the favour.'

John just nodded firmly and settled back in his chair, watching over his friend until they both fell asleep.

* * *

 **Whoops. I added a touch more Angst than I intended to. Oh well. Sorry HalfBloodPrincess110 – quite a bit off the mark with your guess, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!**


	4. Digitalis

**A/N:** A quick note – the onset of symptoms for Digoxin Poisoning is quite a bit longer than noted below. I'm taking liberties because I can…Poetic Licence and such. Just pretend that it was treated specially to make it work faster, kay?

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 **Guest Character:** Jim Moriarty (in SMS form)

 **D is for Digitalis**

 _The one where John drinks tainted tea, and it's kind of, indirectly, Sherlock's fault_

* * *

 **I do hope John enjoyed the tea – JM**

It wasn't a very long message, or a very ominous one for that matter. Rather, it wouldn't be – if it had been sent by anyone _other_ than JM.

Brows drawn together tightly, Sherlock froze – the mug, from which John had been drinking – was now empty at the Doctors side, emptied swiftly as he read the morning paper.

The Detective leapt up from his curled position on the sofa and stalked over to his flatmate.

'How do you feel?' He demanded.

John sighed, flicked the corner of the paper down and peered at him with thinly veiled annoyance.

'I'm fine, Sherlock. What's got your knickers in a knot?' He replied, going back to the paper.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze and bent down to retrieve the mug.

'How was your tea? Did it taste funny?' He continued his line of inquiry, trying to hide an increasing anxiety as he inspected the mug. He gave it a delicate sniff – it didn't smell off.

'Oh for f- _Sherlock_ , what are doing?' John protested, taken aback as Sherlock suddenly began a bodily investigation.

'I believe you've been inadvertently poisoned,' He replied sharply, shoving the phone in his face.

The doctor blanched as he read the initial message, and swore as another came through

 **Not long now until the fun starts – JM  
** 'Fan-bloody- _tastic._ That's a horrid thing to do, poison a man's tea.' He huffed, not nearly as terrified as he should be. It was probably because he only _half_ believed it, and he felt fine…although, according to JM, that was going to change soon.

'You must tell me the moment you start to feel ill and I will catalogue the symptoms so they can diagnose you at the hospi-' Sherlock was cut off by another message.

 **I will tell you when you're allowed a hospital. I want to enjoy my game first ;p – JM**

 _Bollocks._

The detective paced the length of the living room frantically, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he attempted to calm himself. This would not _do_.

Moriarty _had_ warned him, that day at the pool – that he would burn the heart out of him. He must have been far too obvious that the Doctor meant... _something_ to him.

John sighed. 'Calm down mate, I'm not panicking yet, so neither should you,' The Doctor soothed, surprised that he was taking this so well.

Sherlock paused, shot him a glare and continued. 'You're a doctor, John.'

'Yes, I have a license and everything.'

'Shut _up._ You're _the_ Doctor…if I had drunk the tea; it would be fine because you're the doctor. I…' he paused, the words stuck behind the sudden lump in his throat.

John's eyebrow's shot up in realisation. 'Oh…you're _not_ a doctor, so you're what… _concerned_?' He ventured.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'Not the word I would have chosen…but essentially, yes. I cannot care for you as attentively as you could for me, had the situation been reversed.' He admitted clinically.

The doctor nodded in understanding, although Sherlock's concern was beyond him – he had consumed the tea more than half an hour previously, surely _something_ would have happened by now…which was of course, when it all came about

John's stomach gave a mild twitch of irritation, before abruptly twisting itself into agonizing knots. He pitched forward from his seat and onto his knees, clutching himself tightly before vomiting spectacularly onto the rug. Things went to Hell in a handbasket pretty quickly after that.

The Doctor groaned, gripping his belly with a tight fist, drool and sick coating his chin as Sherlock fluttered uncertainly around him – all thoughts of cataloguing symptoms forgotten.

'John? What do I do? What _can_ I do?' The detective asked almost frantically, crouching by his side. His brow, John distantly noticed, was pinched slightly – quicksilver eyes, scanning him rapidly, yet not clinically.

'God, _fuck…_ what is this _shit_?' he panted, pressing his free hand, now trembling, to his brow.

Sherlock's phone buzzed.

 **The game is on…all downhill from here, boys :D – JM**

The detective scowled and tossed his phone aside, stepping back for a moment to gain his bearings. He had _some_ medical knowledge, obtained and memorised during episodes of boredom, but it was mostly deleted once John came along. He now had what counted as a Medical Expert, so he cleared much of that data to make room for other things. Screwing his eyes shut, Sherlock forced himself to think. He would only retreat into his Mind Palace for a moment – too long within would put John in jeopardy. As he sifted through the brittle information, filed away in the back of a quiet room, a sound caught his attention.

A thud, followed by a pathetic whimper. Blue-green eyes snapped open and he turned, silently berating himself for not paying attention – because John was on the floor _fully_ now, still on his knees and leaning forward with his brow pressed hard against the floor. Sherlock couldn't see his face properly, but it looked like he was in quite a fair amount of pain.

'John? Please tell me how I can help?' Sherlock pleaded, ignoring the fact that he _never_ pleaded – because that implied sentiment and caring is not an advantage…

'Sherl-' the doctor began, before retching again – dirtying the rug further. It seemed to be never ending.

A soft whimper emanated from the trembling man on the floor, before he listed sideways and thumped against the hardwood.

Sherlock hissed, because John Watson – dear, stupid (not really) lovely Doctor Watson, should _never_ look as he did in that moment. Death – death _itself_ would probably shudder that the scene before it.

He was practically grey, chin covered in spittle and sick – whimpering and crying at the agony that had befallen him and Sherlock, the world's only Consulting Detective and probably not-so-much-a-sociopath-anymore, had no _bloody_ idea what to do!

Think, _think!_ He screamed at himself for several moments, before realising that was probably the issue.

 _Over_ thinking.

He forced himself to take several deep and steadying breaths. He could figure this out – he was a genius after all.

Symptoms: Tremors, abdominal pain (severe, obviously), vomiting and – Sherlock tilted his head, looked at John's face; eyes squeezed tightly shut, head angled away from the morning light pouring in through the window – headache, also severe.

Not very helpful, as quite a few poisons presented with these early symptoms, but at least he could try to ease some of them. Racing to the windows, he pulled the curtains tightly closed, plunging the living room into a premature twilight.

A grunt and more retching – Christ, it was a miracle John's stomach wasn't on the floor already!

'Sh'l..p-please. _Help,_ ' John finally manage between retches. The plea went straight to the heart Sherlock barely knew existed and he was by his friend's side in seconds.

His eyes were open, but the dark cobalt was but a thin sliver around dilated pupils. Sherlock vowed he would kill Moriarty with his bare hands. He crouched and gripped John gently, lifting him like he was made of glass.

'Easy now, I've got you,' Sherlock soothed, finding he had quite the knack for being gentle when he actually _cared_. They got halfway to the sofa when the doctor cried out, gripping Sherlock tightly before slumping against him – a dead weight.

Sherlock struggled to keep him upright, but the weight of such a sudden flop sent him crashing down too. When he saw John's face, his heart froze.

Teeth clenched and eyes rolled back, his body snapped – suddenly rigid, for only a moment – before the convulsions began. Terrible, violent things they were, and dramatically noisy. He vaguely remembers seizures, or at least the aftermath of them, but he's never actually seen one.

He's shocked, terrified…he can feel moisture building up behind his eyes as he mutters useless words to his friend.

Then, thankfully, it stopped.

John exhaled slightly, frowned, and opened his eyes slowly. His hair was mussed and a dark bruise was beginning to form from where his head hit when he fell, but he was watching Sherlock, conscious and lucid.

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, wiped his eyes and _bafflingly_ , wove his arms around John – pulling him close.

'Not a word,' he warned against his flaxen crown, holding tight against the tremors that wracked John's body.

He vomited again, down Sherlock's pyjama shirt, and groaned.

'Sherlock? Come now, you're scaring me,' John murmured against his shoulder, struggling weakly.

The Detective held him tighter, to stop him from shaking apart.

'It's retribution for frightening me first,' Sherlock replied petulantly, but pulled away nonetheless. He raked a critical eye over his flatmate and forced himself up, grabbing his phone just as it chimed.

 **Aww, quite the show boys! You may now seek medical attention. Toodles! – JM**

Sherlock didn't hesitate – he dialled 999 and while he rattled off their details, began to think of the horrible ways he would make Jim Moriarty _pay_ for poisoning their tea.

* * *

 **Not** _ **entirely**_ **happy with this one, it feels a little slashy to me, which is not really the intent here. Feel free to view it as such, if you must – and don't forget to leave feedback!**


	5. Explosion

**A/N:** Now…can we just have a quick chat about TFP? Phenomenal Finale – edge of my seat the whole time…but one thing _bugs_ me. The outcome of that epic explosion scene… _please_ tell me I'm not the only one who feels a little underwhelmed by the aftermath of that? Well, I'm filling in – assuming there's a time jump between the explosion and their piracy – because there is NO way they got out of that shit unscathed.

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Friendship, Drama

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing and blood

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes & John Watson

 **Guest Character:** Mycroft Holmes

 **E is for Explosion**

 _Wherein there is actually an aftermath to the Explosion in The Final Problem  
_

* * *

'Oscar Wilde,' John said softly, heaving a steadying breath and glancing at the explosive between them.

Mycroft frowned. 'What?'

'He said "The truth rarely pure and never simple." It's from _The Importance of being Earnest_. We did it in school.'

A flicker of recognition passed over Mycroft's face. 'So did we, now I recall. I was Lady Bracknell.'

From by the fireplace, Sherlock snorted softly – but his lips twitched into a light smile, almost reminiscing.

'Yeah, you were great,' he admitted, meeting his brother's gaze. For so long, there had been quite the animosity between the two, but now that Sherlock understood Mycroft's reasons (and possibly given that the likelihood of their survival was abysmally low) the middle Holmes, for he knew that for sure now, couldn't bring himself to hate his brother quite so much.

Mycroft, for his part, looked mildly shocked at the admission, a small part of him suspicious that Sherlock was only saying that because they were probably about to die. 'You really think so?'

'Yes, I really do.'

The elder Holmes returned his brother's soft smile. 'Well, it's good to know. I've always wondered…'

That was when the vacuum cleaner stopped. Sherlock looked from Mycroft to John – there was _so much_ he wanted to say to them. He could see the fear in John's stance, but also the determination and Mycroft…well – his brother was almost as dignified and pompous as ever, but softer somehow.

'Good luck boys.' He said, taking a breath before beginning his count down. 'Three…two…one.'

It was like time had slowed as they moved, Mycroft diving out the door while the pair – detective and doctor – twisted toward the windows. It was the longest three seconds either of them had ever experienced and yet, they had barely reached the windows when their senses exploded in fire and pain. The intense shockwave pushed them through the glass and out – suspended almost comically above the footpath as they were engulfed by heat.

That was when gravity took over, and they plunged – breathless and scorched – to the world below.

* * *

Dazed confusion was a sensation of which Mycroft Holmes was unaccustomed. His ears were ringing as he stumbled almost drunkenly down the stairs, his smoke-filled lungs heaving in desperation as he neared the bottom. The old lady was in view, eyes wide in shock and, dare he say it, concern as he reached her.

Her mouth was moving, but between the tinnitus and the tears clouding his vision – the words were lost on him. She seemed unharmed, thankfully…but what of his brother? What of the doctor that had become so delicately entwined with the Holmes' lives?

Mycroft coughed, ears popping and sound rushing back as he reached out to grab Mrs Hudson's papery wrist. 'Sherlock…John.' He rasped hoarsely, his legs almost numb as they carried him to the front door.

'Mycroft Holmes!' The landlady scolded. 'My boys, what happened to my _boys_?'

Bless her decrepit heart, she wasn't concerned for _him_. No – the maternal love she had for both Sherlock and John was in full effect as she hustled after him as fast as her arthritic hips could take her.

'The windows, they jumped.' The elder Holmes called back, pushing the front door open with a shoulder. Smoke and flames poured from the windows, crackling with a menacing glee – he could feel the heat from where he stood – blistering and intense. His pale eyes shifted from the fire damaged building, and widened once they shifted to the carnage below.

The sight of his brother – still and smouldering on the footpath, awakened something within him, a panic coiling tightly in his chest – and the Doctor. Plain, predictable, _boring_ John Watson, similarly incapacitated, was dragging his compact frame across the path and towards Sherlock, a streak of crimson trailing behind.

'Sher'l,' Mycroft heard the Doctor gasp brokenly – of course, Sherlock looked to be in rather a similar state as his faked suicide, but this was _real._ Pain twisted John's features, but he persevered, continuing his vain attempt at a commando crawl. It was really too much for the British Government to handle, and suddenly his feet were moving.

'Doctor Watson! John!' Mycroft called, falling to his knees between the two men. 'You must not exert yourself – you're hurt.'

'Shit,' he hissed in response, his frame shuddering as he continued. 'Myc-I need…Sherlock?'

Sirens wailed in the distance, steadily coming closer as Mycroft broke a little at the pain in John's voice. Now a widower, John's heart couldn't afford to lose his best friend. The elder Holmes turned and shuffled toward his sibling's prone form. His suit jacket was mostly burn away and the white shirt beneath was torn and stained red, but his eyes, indecisive between blue and green, were open…and blinking.

Mycroft huffed out the breath he didn't realise he was holding and turned to John.

'He's alive…conscious too,' he assured, moving to accommodate the doctor at his side. The smaller man looked just as bad as his brother – his brow was slick with blood and his beige jumper was _soaked_ with it – but soon, he was by Sherlock's side, assessing injuries and his state of consciousness as the Emergency Services arrived, cordoning off the streets. The pair spoke in hushed tones, tender and reassuring.

'J-john…you're hurt?' Sherlock gasped as John probed his body for hidden injuries.

'Nothing to worry about, I'm a doctor – remember?' the former soldier replied softly with a smile, trying to hide the fact the he was very much in pain. The consulting detective shook his head and reached out with spindly fingers to grasp at the stain on John's jumper.

The doctor flinched and tried to bite back the scream of pain that clawed at his throat because, _fuck –_ there seemed to be a piece of 221B lodged in his side.

He looked down, his face almost grey beneath the soot and blood as he tore the clothing up and away. Sherlock's brow was pinched as he tried to sit – to help his family – but John pushed him back down with a shake of his head.

'Sherlock, mate – _stop_ ,' he ground out, his eyes squeezing shut as he fisted his shirt collar. 'I'll be _fine._ '

It was probably true, because they should _both_ be dead.

Moments later, they were swarmed by paramedics – working methodically on the pair as Mycroft pulled his phone out to call the hospital in advance. They were to have a private room – the same, because the pair were inseparable and their proximity to each other would ease their concerns somewhat. Arrangements made, he watched blankly as his brother fought to stand – to be in the same ambulance as his friend, who had succumbed to the pain and was now lying prone upon a gurney.

'We're both coming,' Mycroft stepped forward, flashing his government ID and subconsciously wrapping an arm around his brother's waist to steady him. 'Easy, brother mine – I am humouring you, just this once – but once we reach the hospital, you _will_ submit to any and all medical probing, understood?'

He nodded once, allowing his brother to help him into the rear of the ambulance and throughout the entire ride, his eyes did not stray from his unconscious friend.

* * *

John awoke sometime later under the too-close scrutiny of one Sherlock Holmes. He flinched at the unexpected proximity and winced at the subsequent throb the movement caused.

'Christ, _Sherlock!_ ' he hissed, clenching his fists into the scratchy hospital sheets.

The tall man, with his brow furrowed – said naught. He looked as bad as John felt, but reached out regardless – hesitant fingers curling around the Doctor's bare bicep. Eyes, stubbornly hovering between steely-blue and pale-green, shimmered with emotion.

'John…' Sherlock murmured breathlessly, nose twitching to hide a sniffle. It was unusual, to see the Consulting Detective look so vulnerable – John hated it.

He hated it, because the look on his face was _so_ similar to the night John beat the living daylights out of him and left him in the hands of an utter _psycho_.

Nightmares plagued him still, despite the fact that Sherlock had straight out forgiven him – no questions.

The detective, who was only five years his junior – suddenly seemed a lot younger. He'd just found out he had a sister, that he somehow managed to delete, a sister who – by some feat of sheer maniacal brilliance, managed to detonate a grenade in their living room.

'There's something wrong with me,' he admitted thickly, like he was talking past a golf ball. John frowned and reached for the bed control, managing to get himself into a semi-recumbent position.

'Sherlock…what is it?' the Doctor asked, tempted to scold him for being out of bed when he was hurt so.

'I…my chest feels tight, when I saw you – bleeding so terribly – it was like I couldn't _breathe_ …and there is something lodged in my throat that makes it difficult to swallow,' he heaved a breath, which sounded suspiciously like a sob and John was surprised that the man had yet to realise he was crying.

'Jesus, Sherlock…c'mere you _berk_.' John sighed softly – opening his arms. 'For a self-proclaimed genius, you can be awfully thick sometimes.'

Sherlock looked bewildered for a moment, but obliged hesitantly – allowing John to comfort him as he had done not two weeks past.

The realisation came as a shock that this feeling branched from sentiment. The panic of seeing his best friend coated in blood, the fear of losing him. Sherlock almost choked again, his eyes hot as he buried his face into John's shoulder.

Short, methodical fingers carded through his hair – once, twice – before stopping and allowing the detective to step back.

'Is this what you felt, when you saw me fall?' he asked softly, stepping back as John met his gaze with an intensity Sherlock cannot remember ever seeing.

John's throat bobbed several times, his own eyes suspiciously wet.

'Yes,' he answered brokenly. 'And every time you walk out the door, it comes back.'

The detective looked away, ashamed and appalled that he had caused his best friend that much _anguish_.

'Why then? Why…no, _how_ can you hold me in such high regard? I have caused you naught but pain, John Watson – I am completely _unworthy_ of your friendship and yet…you always gravitate to my side, steadfast and loyal.'

John wiped his eyes and gave the man a small smile.

'You really don't see your worth, do you? You saved my life…that first day. I was miserable, worthless… _suicidal_. I was going to do it Sherlock,'

The man's eyes snapped to John's in shock. 'I was going to kill myself.'

Sherlock swallowed tightly several times, mouth suddenly dry. He suddenly recalled the woman that came to him, when he was in hell – when he saw the scars on her wrists.

John continued after a pause. 'You gave me purpose, a home…yes, you're somewhat of an acquired taste, but…you're important. _So_ important to me, Sherlock – please don't ever think you're unworthy of that.'

The detective nodded, drew a deep breath and tried for a shaky smile.

'Thank you, John.' He mumbled.

'Yes, well…enough of that…what are we going to do about your _sister?_ '

* * *

 **Yes…angst. Because there needed to be more of these moments! Episode continues as aired from here on out.**

 **Please review!**


	6. Fear

**A/N:** Ok, heads up right here – I'm about to dial things up a notch. I'm hoping it's as intense as I visualise and please, especially with this one – let me know how I go.

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Horror, Angst, Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ M for swearing, dark themes and blood

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 **Guest Character:** mentions of Moriarty.

 **TRIGGER WARNING** – unconscious/involuntary self-harm

 **F is for Fear**

 _The case where John & Sherlock are imprisoned and experimental drugs make an appearance  
_

* * *

 _Drip…drip…drip…_

He could feel every drop, icy and distinct as it hit his bare shoulder. The water always ran the same way, following the curve of his arm, clinging to the fine hairs and sliding further, soaking into the fabric of his jeans.

John blinked, but it was of little use – it was too dark to see and silent but for the leaky pipe.

Time was lost to him and he was alone, away from Sherlock with no knowledge of his physical state.

The separation was unnerving.

He flexed his arms in an attempt to increase the blood flow to his fingers, the movement pinching the injection site at the crook of his elbow.

Whatever it was, sliding through his veins – he was sure it was every bit as unpleasant as Moriarty assured – the man, practically gleeful – described the experience in detail, his Irish lilt creeping down John's spine as he dragged his tongue sensually over the shell of his ear.

 _You have never felt terror_ _ **quite**_ _as delicious as this before, pet._

John shuddered violently, eyes squeezing shut as the words came back – dripping and saccharine and _false_.

He just had to remember, whatever he felt, whatever he _saw;_ was not real.

* * *

The darkness receded so imperceptibly, that John hardly noticed at first. He was quietly reciting the NATO Phonetic Alphabet to distract himself from the sour tang of panic rising in his chest. It wasn't until his seventeenth cycle through that he realised he had enough light to see the figure in the corner of the tiny cell. Belstaff pulled tightly around his body, Sherlock lay facing the wall – curled up impossibly small for someone who had such a gigantic presence.

Licking dry lips, John shuffled over to his friend. As he got closer, his medically wired brain immediately picked up the strain in his breathing, the tight set of his body – the occasional whimper of pain.

The Doctor shuffled faster.

He reached out, gently eased the man onto his back and promptly skidded back in shock at the sight before him.

'J'hn,' Sherlock wheezed, reaching out to him – slim fingers coated with crimson as they grasped his wrist. The blood was hot against his cold skin, but the insistent touch could not pry his attention away from the wound on Sherlock's torso.

'Jesus _Christ_ ,' John choked, turning his head to vomit – something that had only ever happened to him during his first year at Med School.

The skin was torn from navel to breast, wide and gaping – spilling blood far too quickly for John to do anything about it – and Sherlock was still awake. The man below let out a frustrated grunt, and tugged his wrist – desperate for the Doctor's attention.

' _Please,'_ he begged, and John tore his eyes from the injury to meet Sherlock's gaze. 'It _hurt's_ ,'

The doctor swallowed a sob and took a deep breath. He couldn't fix this – not here. It was too deep, too _big_ …so much blood. He wasn't going to make it – Sherlock Holmes was going to die in his arms.

'Sherlock…' he forced out, his throat tight with emotion, tears like boiling water stinging his eyes. 'What do you need?'

He had been afraid to ask, but his friend was _suffering_ and it was killing him. He bent low, pressed his brow against a thin shoulder and let out a thin wail.

'P-please… _end it_.'

He dragged in a painful breath…and another. His chest was so tight he felt it would burst. When he raised his head, Sherlock gave him a crimson smile, blood dripping from his lips and coating his chin. 'I trust you, my friend.'

John was sobbing now, as he pressed his trembling hands over Sherlock's mouth and nose. It would not take long – but he held his friends eyes as he began to kick.

'You are loved…please always remember that,' he croaked, feeling Sherlock's tears pool against his palm. 'Sleep well.'

Then, it was over.

Eyes glazed, Sherlock continued to stare. John exhaled a shaky sob and slumped to the floor, unconscious…

* * *

' _Johnny_ …time to wake up, you miserable sack of shit!'

The Doctor jolted awake and immediately scrambled back. The face staring back at him was his own; eyes dark and lips stretched into a malicious grin.

'About time you woke up, fucking prick. Dull old John – Captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers – can't even sort fiction from reality. I'm surprised Sherlock didn't _actually_ kill himself from the BOREDOM!'

The last word was shouted and Watson reached down, grabbing a fist full of his flaxen hair.

'You're a fucking _waste_ John; look at you – getting fat and lazy in your retirement. You should be ashamed, _disgusted.'_

John whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut, the spectre before him, looming threateningly. 'Kill yourself John. Do the world a fucking favour. You're worthless. _Nothing_.'

The other man, his doppelganger, gripped tighter and dragged him across the floor. 'I can help speed things up,' he hissed, throwing him bodily against the concrete wall.

'Nghh…stop, _please,_ ' The Doctor whimpered, cowering away from the towering figure. His heart thumped wildly in his chest – breathing ragged as his clone scowled at him.

'When little Jim told you about the _fear_ , you were expecting…what, _John?_ ' Watson growled, driving his skull into the wall. John choked against the pain, but forced himself to remain conscious as the man continued to speak. 'A spectral hound, perhaps? No…you're surprised that what you fear is _yourself_. Or more to the point, you fear the thought of the man you'd become if you couldn't save Sherlock.'

Watson slammed his head again, and the world dimmed away until a sharp slap pulled him back.

'It is _rude_ to lose consciousness when someone is SPEAKING TO YOU!'

John flinched when the man crouched, taking his wrists with icy hands.

'You're a Doctor – you know exactly _where_ to cut to achieve maximum results. You should do it now – Sherlock is dead and you have nothing else,'

Something sharp, a dirty shard of glass, is pressed into his trembling palm. 'Do the world a favour, John. Erase yourself – bleed your life out on the floor.'

John whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut.

 _It's not real, it can't be – he's me. Hallucinating…seeing things._

His head hit the wall again, which felt real enough. 'DO IT, JOHN HAMISH WATSON! _End that miserable existence you call a life.'_ Watson bellowed, spit flying. 'Do it now, go on…'

Miserable, scared and alone – his heart torn at the sight of his best friend dying beneath his hands, John Watson dragged the shard over the delicate skin of his wrists…

* * *

'John! Don't you _dare_!' Sherlock bellowed at the screen before him, wrists still bound by electronic locks – set to release him only when Moriarty was a safe distance from the detective's feral rage. The logical part of his brain, which is to say _most_ of his brain, was trying feebly to remind Sherlock that his friend couldn't _actually_ hear him, but right now, after watching John descend into terror, hearing his panicked cries, _watching him slam his own head into the wall,_ Sherlock was running on something primal. The part of his brain that thought it acceptable to drop a man from a second story window for hitting Mrs Hudson, the same part that had his fingers tearing the bomb from John's torso in the dark of the pool.

It was _visceral_. He could feel it in his blood, tightening his throat as he watched (in HD, because Moriarty is a fucking showboat and a Drama Queen) his best friend, dig that dirty shard of glass into the flesh of his wrist, _crying_ , because somehow, he thinks himself worthless of Sherlock's friendship.

The Detective couldn't tear his eyes away from the rivulets of blood snaking down the man's arm - dripping from the tips of his fingers.

 _Please, John – stop this madness!_

He struggled, knowing that Moriarty was somehow watching this remotely. 'Let me free! Let me go to him! You have nothing to fear from me – I'm going to be rather _preoccupied_ for the foreseeable future,' he spat, snarling at the camera in the corner.

It seemed, that Moriarty – criminal genius that he was, timed the cuffs perfectly – for no sooner had the words left his mouth, the cool steel opened with a _shlick_ and Sherlock was on his feet moments after. Snatching his phone and the keys that Jim had left dangling so tantalizingly close, Sherlock bolted from the small tiled room - following the sounds of John's hysteria as it bounced through seemingly endless corridors.

He thought of dialling an Ambulance and possibly Lestrade – but the medical community would just keep John under suicide watch, something he _knew_ the man would abhor.

 _I am not bloody suicidal, I was drugged!_

The indignant voice sounded exactly right, different to the sounds he was approaching. Strong and firm, possibly a little annoyed. Not these panic inducing sobs that tore at John's throat as he cut deeper.

He called Mycroft, because Mycroft wouldn't ask questions.

His brother picked up after the second ring and Sherlock spoke immediately.

'GPS tracker in my phone – yes, I know there is one. Send a car to this location immediately and put some stuff in it,' he demanded.

'Stuff, Sherlock?' Mycroft responded – unflappable as ever.

'Yes, Mycroft! Medical…stuff…bandages, pain relief…I don't _know_! Just _send a fucking car_.'

He rang off, knowing that his brother would indulge him, despite his use of expletives. That was more John's area – bad language. The Doctor must've influenced him more than he realised.

Rounding a corner, he came across a steel door – padlocked, and containing his friend. He could hear the choking breaths of emotion on the other side, wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong!_

His fingers trembled as he inserted the key and twisted, thankful that, despite his manic psychopathy, Moriarty rarely _double_ fucked them.

Sherlock heaved the door open and stared.

His beloved John Watson – excessive drinker of tea and wearer of _horrid_ jumpers – was curled into a dark corner, wrists bleeding, temple bruised and scarlet, whimpering his name.

A thing happened then.

It was a sudden thing, and Sherlock is not accustomed to sudden things, when they are occurring within his own transport.

Simultaneously, his gut clenched, throat tightened and hot tears spilled from his eyes as he rushed forward.

' _John…_ dear Watson,' he choked, falling to his knees in front of the ex-soldier. John flinched and pressed himself back as far as he could go.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured, his red eyes staring at the self-inflicted wounds marring his wrists. They were ugly, ragged things – deep and bloody – but, it appeared that he had missed any major arteries. 'I'm _sorry_ ,'

Sherlock reached out, _slowly_ this time, his fingers brushing the coarse stubble of his chin.

'Whatever for, John?' Sherlock inquired, keeping his voice low and calming.

'I _killed_ you…you were dying and in pain, so I…'

The reedy wail that came after tore at Sherlock's heart. He swallowed rapidly, weaved his arms under John's and dragged him over.

'I'm right here,' he assured, pressing John's ear to his chest. 'Listen, I'm alive. You didn't kill me…whatever you saw, it was not _real.'_

John trembled against him, his hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as tears soaked into Sherlock's skin.

'Sherlock, _Sherlock…_ please be real. Please be _alive_ ,' John begged quietly, his voice muffled.

'Yes, John – I'm here.' He replied softly, moving his hand to brush through blood matted hair. 'This is real, right now. Please, just _breathe_.'

John shuddered and held tighter, his muscles so taut from stress, Sherlock could feel them trembling.

'Sherlock…I'm still…I don't…can we please go home?' he asked feebly.

He was by no means, recovered but Sherlock would take care of that.

* * *

 **Please let me know how I went? I'm thinking, after I get through the alphabet – doing bonus chapters, filling in aftermaths, reversing POV's on certain chapters. If you guys want more afterwards, let me know!**


	7. Gunshot

_**A/N:**_ **I got the idea for the below from an episode of Torchwood. I don't own that either. Hope you enjoy!**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing and blood

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock

 _ **Guest Characters:**_ DI Lestrade, OC Teenager

 **G is for Gunshot**

 _Wherein Sherlock inadvertently startles a frightened teen and suffers the consequences_

* * *

 _Mutilated corpses discovered in a deserted village._

Sherlock's eyes took on a manic glean when Lestrade delivered the news – a friend of his, a country copper – had taken a hysterical call from a tourist and set out to investigate, coming up with no realistic scenarios to explain the sudden _lack_ of population.

Finally, a case that rated at least a nine – intriguing enough for Sherlock to insist John pack his bags and call in absent to the clinic.

'Sherlock, I can't just call in sick every time we have an interesting case! It is our only reliable source of income!' John had protested, but continued to pack anyway. He had to admit, he was morbidly curious enough about the whole situation to skive of work for a couple of days.

The Consulting Detective merely scoffed. 'Come now, John. I have just received payment from Lord and Lady Caldwell for solving the case of their missing teenager. Fifteen Thousand pounds for extracting their delinquent offspring from a crack den – I think we can afford a little fresh country air, wouldn't you agree?'

The Doctor grumbled and sighed, but rang the clinic regardless.

They set off early the next morning in separate vehicles, at Sherlock's insistence. Both John and Greg had protested but, the Consulting Detective presented a logical argument for once and the pair had begrudgingly agreed. If one of the cars broke down, at least they would not be stranded in an abandoned village full of corpses that had no business being there.

It took them half the day to traverse the winding country roads that led to the quiet Village of Eastoft, and once they arrived, the entire Parrish was shrouded in a dense mist, adding to the atmosphere of "Ghost Town."

It barely took them an hour to complete a cursory investigation, and once they happened upon the corpses, Sherlock concluded that a fileting knife had been used to slice off portions of flesh.

'Communal Cannibalism,' The Detective supplied with disgust.

'Err…pardon?' John asked, grimacing as he examined the _wounds_ on the deceased, as it were.

'People eating people,' Sherlock clarified unnecessarily. 'Look at the parts that have been _taken_. Buttocks, thigh and cheek – the most tender meat on any-'

DI Lestrade held up a halting hand. 'Please…do _not_ go any further. I'm already considering a conversion to veganism.' He said, clutching his churning gut unconsciously. 'Let's get back to the cars, yeah? Call in the big guns for a more thorough investigation.'

The crime-fighting duo reluctantly followed, weary of their surroundings with the knowledge that one or more hungry individuals could be lurking in the mist.

Their plans to leave, let alone call for back up, were postponed upon returning to the cars.

'Fucking _bollocks!_ ' Greg shouted, taking in the state of both vehicles.

All the tyres had been slashed violently and the police radio had been ripped from the DI's car and smashed on the road.

Unless they could find a working vehicle _somewhere_ – they were essentially stranded.

In a town full of bloody _cannibals_ , no less.

'Well, there's nothing for it then – may as well explore a bit more.' Sherlock proclaimed, rubbing his hands together with glee.

They would later come to regret that decision.

* * *

It was decided, after much debate, that the trio would split up to cover more ground. Lestrade reluctantly handed Sherlock a weapon, knowing full well that John had his Sig tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

If they came to any trouble, the agreement was to fire a warning to gain the others attention and only use lethal force if necessary.

John was securing the perimeter of a decrepit barn when he heard the shot.

All conscious thought stopped in that moment as his feet carried him in the direction of the sound – because the blast hadn't come from a pistol.

'JOHN!' Greg bellowed from close by, panicked – but not pained, which meant…

 _Sherlock_ …

The Doctor picked up speed, whipping his own firearm out and clicking off the safety. As he dashed through the copse of trees bordering the property line, he slowed – heart stuttering at the sight before him.

The DI was crouched by the prone form of Sherlock Holmes, hands pressed desperately against the crimson stain marring his white shirt.

' _Shit_ ,' John hissed, tucking the gun back and jogging to his friend's side. The man was conscious and visibly distressed as he tried to move away from Lestrade's touch. The rear door of the dwelling was open, revealing a girl, no older than sixteen, clutching a shotgun with trembling hands, staring in shock at the man she had just shot.

'You go to her, see if she's alright,' John instructed softly. 'Don't be too harsh, poor girl looks terrified.'

The DI nodded, allowing John to take over.

Sherlock was shaking from head to toe, eyes wide and blinking rapidly – like his brain couldn't quite compute the situation. The Doctor gently peeled the fabric from the wound and winced.

Buckshot – thankfully from a decent enough distance. Any closer and the shot would have blasted half his abdomen away and John would be examining a corpse.

'Hey mate, you with me?' he asked softly, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a small smile. 'Try to relax; it could have been _a lot_ worse.'

The younger man whimpered, his brow creasing in pain. 'J'hn...' he murmured thickly, his long fingers fluttering around the wound.

'Yeah, good idea – apply pressure just _here_ ,' John gently pressed Sherlock's hands to the wound, the movement eliciting a choked cry of pain. 'We're gonna have to carry you inside – just give us a sec, yeah?'

The detective gave a jerky nod and exhaled shakily to control the agony burning at his gut.

John turned to the DI, who had divested the teen of the firearm and draped his coat over her trembling shoulders.

'Greg, need you here for a tick – we have to get him inside.' He gave Sherlock's arm a quick pat, climbed to his feet and approached the girl slowly.

'Hi there, I'm John Watson,' he greeted softly, with a smile.

'I-I'm so _sorry_ ,' she whimpered, her hazel eyes watering as they flickered towards Sherlock. 'I thought it was one of _them._ '

'Hey, it's alright – you were scared and he's an idiot. He'll be fine, trust me. I'm a doctor.' John assured. 'I just need to know if there's a clear, flat surface in there we can put him on – yeah?'

The teen nodded, leading him in to the kitchen table – a sturdy piece of furniture, mostly clear but for bills and a few placemats. John cleared it with a sweep of his arm and rushed back outside.

Greg had eased the Detective up somewhat, but the young man was now protesting – the pain clear on his pale features.

'Easy does it, we've got you,' John soothed bending down to drape one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder. Greg followed suit and once they had their hands situated beneath his knees, they lifted him upright.

The Doctor clenched his teeth as the movement tore a cry from the detective's throat – he was truly alarmed now – gripping desperately at John's back, nonsensical babble spewing from his lips.

The pain must've been overwhelming, and John was starting to wish he'd pass out already. Once they navigated the back stairs and entered the house, the two men managed to set Sherlock down on the table with relative ease.

'Greg, I need you to go back to the cars – my surgical kit is in the boot.' John instructed, digging the keys from his pocket before turning to the young girl.

'…'

'Gracie,' she offered, looking less peaky than she had before.

John flashed a reassuring smile. 'Nice to meet you, Gracie – this is Sherlock Holmes. Could you please do me a favour? Can you have a look in the bathroom for some peroxide and a pair of tweezers?'

She gave a quick nod and disappeared, the sounds of her footsteps disappearing up the stairs.

Sherlock grunted and twisted violently as the pain flared once more.

'Easy mate, keep still – looks like there's still some buckshot in the wound.' John said, pushing him down.

'F-fuck… _h-hurts_ ,' Sherlock replied shakily, his twitching hands smearing hot blood everywhere.

John snorted at the rare expletive, and reached up to brush the sweaty curls from his brow. 'Yeah – I bet. Don't worry; I have morphine in the kit. I'll get you fixed up.'

Gracie returned a moment later with a damp flannel, the peroxide and a pair of tweezers. John nodded his thanks and went about wiping the blood away as gently as possible.

The youth caught Sherlock's gaze and sniffed. 'I'm sorry for hurting you, Mr Holmes,' she muttered guiltily.

He shook his head and gave the girl a shaky smile. 'N-never mind that. John's right – I am an idiot.'

 _He must really not feel himself…_

Gracie returned the smile hesitantly. 'So…you're friends then?'

'The best,' John supplied, giving Sherlock's hand a comforting squeeze.

The DI returned several minutes later, placing the Doctor's extensive field kit on a chair. Leaving Sherlock's side for a moment, John washed his hands in the kitchen sink and snapped on a pair of nitrite gloves.

'Sherlock, I'm going to numb the area first with some Lidocaine and it's gonna sting for a bit, but I promise it will be worth it. Is that ok?'

The Doctor caught Sherlock's shaky nod and prepared the dose, readying the morphine for afterwards. He injected the local at the wound site as quickly as he could, but the detective still gasped – head lolling back to thump against the kitchen table.

'Jesus _Christ_ ,' he groaned, eyes squeezed shut against the burn.

'Alright 'Lock – all done. Take a deep breath, this won't take a mo,' John assured, pulling random drawers open in search of some clean tea towels.

'What do you need me to do?' Greg asked, arms folded as he eyed the injured man on the table, brow furrowed in concern.

Placing the bundles onto the table, John gently probed the wound – which elicited no response. He was ready to go.

'Torch please – I need you to hold it over the wound so I can see.' He instructed; tweezers in hand.

The doctor wiped the wound again and set to work. It was slow going, and some of the buckshot was deep enough to pull a pained hiss from the prone detective, but fortunately not so deep as to damage any organs.

'All done,' John declared half an hour later, carefully covering the wound to prevent infection. The morphine came next – despite the Doctor's reluctance to do so, knowing Sherlock's history of substance abuse. Sherlock inhaled sharply, held his breath for several seconds and thankfully, relaxed.

'Ohh, that's better…' he slurred, the lines on his face smoothing away as the drug did its work.

John huffed. 'Don't get used to it, mate. You need to be more careful – no more kicking down doors and scaring armed teenagers. You mightn't be so bloody lucky next time.' He scolded good-naturedly.

The detective glared at him half-heartedly.

'My apologies, _doctor_. I will ensure I am more careful in the future,'

John ruffled his inky curls and grinned. 'Be sure you do, you great lanky berk…I hate seeing you hurt. Now get some rest – we're gonna have to hoof it out of here eventually.'

Sherlock just sighed, ever thankful for the man by his side – watching over him as he drifted off into a healing sleep.


	8. Hanging

_**A/N:**_ **I just wanted to say thank you to all who have reviewed so far! I really do get joy from your feedback!**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 _ **Guest Characters:**_ OC baddie

 **H is for Hanging**

 _The one where John is caught off guard by a Serial Killer and almost becomes the next victim_

* * *

Usually, when Sherlock Holmes comes up with a strategy – it involves days of careful study, various experiments and more than three back-ups; just in case Plan A falls through. While these schemes are generally dangerous, they are _always_ intelligent and well thought out – so when Sherlock presented John with his latest plan, the Doctor almost choked on his tea.

'That isn't even a plan, _Sherlock_! It's stupid, suicidal and quite honestly, _Anderson_ could do better!' John protested, earning a scathing glare from the Detective.

Sherlock, who was difficult to deal with on a regular day – had become downright _unbearable_ over the several weeks their current case had been running for. A Serial Killer, going by the name of _The Hyde Park Hangman_ , continued to not only elude the best and brightest of NSY, but the Consulting Detective himself, which he took as the highest insult to his person.

So far, the only thing the victims had in common, was that they were stupid enough to be wandering through the park in the wee hours of the morning…which just so happened to be Sherlock's utterly ridiculous plan.

'I will choose to ignore that _highly_ offensive comment regarding Anderson,' Sherlock spat indignantly, flopping gracelessly onto the sofa. 'This is gone on for long enough – there needs to be a more _direct_ approach and with Lestrade refusing to put an undercover officer in the line of fire, the responsibility falls to us!'

John sighed and put his book down, eyeing his flatmate with some scepticism.

'It sounds to me; Sherlock that you plan to put _me_ in the line of fire…as _bait_ , no less!'

There was a beat of silence, and the Doctor narrowed his gaze.

'In a manner of speaking,' the detective began slowly. 'Yes, I suppose you could call yourself bait – but _semantics_ , John! I shan't allow myself to be beaten by a murderer who chooses to end his victims by a method as inelegant and tedious as _hanging_!'

And so the argument went – round and round and round; until it ended in a slanging match of epic proportions. John conceded eventually and somewhat _begrudgingly_ – but only because Sherlock had manipulated his emotional side. The Doctor wouldn't let anyone else die if he could help it…and the _bastard_ knew it.

Which was why, John was wandering aimlessly around Hyde Park at two in the morning with his Sig tucked in the waistband of his jeans – a comforting weight in a less than comfortable situation. They had gone their separate ways long before they reached the park, so John had no _idea_ where the man was or how long it would take for Sherlock to get to him if things went to shite.

He did, however, have instructions to fire his weapon thrice – should he be in need of assistance – and amusingly, his only thought was that Sherlock sometimes spoke like he belonged in the mid-19th Century.

With that, he was left to his own devices, trying not to look as suspicious as one did, wandering around a dark park at all hours. Using the torch on his phone, he scrabbled around in the undergrowth – under the guise that he was searching for something – which went on for some time. An uneventful and boring evening, to be sure, and John was _just_ about to call it quits when a dark figure stepped out of the shadows and clubbed him over the head with a branch.

His vision flashed white as the force of the hit sent him sprawling, but he didn't quite lose consciousness. The man, dressed in black and wearing a balaclava, dragged him roughly to his feet and gave him another belt around the head for good measure.

'Hello, _Doctor_ Watson,' the bloke hissed, pulling him into a dense thicket of trees. 'I don't see your detective friend anywhere…but I do know why you've come out here so _late._ '

John spat to clear his mouth of blood and struggled into his Military stance. The Hangman or so John assumed, merely snorted.

'You do not intimidate me, John Hamish Watson, you _amuse_ me. I have been watching you both flounder for _weeks_ trying to string the facts together – to figure out what the pattern was between the victims…but you and your _detective_ failed to see it.'

The Doctor scowled at the use of his full name and tried to struggle as the man brought him to the trunk of a giant Oak and slammed his head into the rough wood. It was enough to incapacitate John, but not so hard as to knock him flat out.

'You see, Doctor Watson, the pattern is…that there _is_ no pattern! What connects the victims is that they're all unconnected – you were wasting time on searching for something that doesn't exist.' The killer pulled the doctor up by the collar of his jumper and laughed, tugging an expertly tied noose into John's line of sight.

'As punishment for your friend's stupidity, you get to be my next victim. Congratulations Doctor!'

As the coarse rope slipped over his head, John really started to panic. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and as the Hangman roughly bound his hands behind his back with a shorter length of rope, the Doctor felt helpless.

 _Oh please God, let me live_.

It would seem the killer was done talking and as he threw the other end of the rope over a rather sturdy looking branch, John felt his heartrate increase. It wasn't going to be pleasant, being pulled up by his neck – at least if he'd dropped John from a height, as in traditional hangings – it was more likely to be over with minimum pain.

The noose tightened suddenly and John struggled as he was slowly lifted off the ground. Up and up and up.

 _Oh God_ , it was already awful – his face flushed hot as the blood rushed. He was going to fucking _die_ if Sherlock didn't hurry!

The man was gone now – leaving John alone with very scattered thoughts. One last scattered thought, it seemed – was quite a bit more persistent than the rest – _gun._

Hands tied behind back where gun is situated…

Fingers twitched, and the rope rubbed horribly against his wrists – drawing blood as he twisted his hands to reach the firearm.

 _Just…thrice_

He was losing, darkness creeping in the edges and silent but for the rush of blood in his ears. His hands were shaking, but he managed to grip the pistol and aim it away from himself.

 _Don't drop it, Watson!_

John somehow managed to flick the safety off and; with numb fingers; he squeezed the trigger…once, twice and yes! Thrice!

The gun slipped from his grasps when he started kicking – a reflex action due to lack of oxygen. He figured he had two minutes before he snuffed it, less if he couldn't keep himself conscious. He just hoped Sherlock was close enough to get to him before that happened.

* * *

Sherlock froze.

Three distinct gunshots in rapid succession, from the other side of the park – indicating distress.

The detective turned and ran, his mind whirling with horrible possibilities. The shots weren't measured, like he deduced they would be – a pause between each, but a quick report of three. This told Sherlock that there was panic involved, and calm, brave Doctor Watson rarely _panicked._

Drawing in breaths of frigid morning air, the Detective whipped out his phone and dialled John's number. He would never guess the exact location based on the shots alone; he would need assistance.

The phone rang and rang as Sherlock raced up the hill, towards the tinny sound of John's ringtone.

 _Please let him be alright_

Begged the quiet voice in the back of his head – one that had never been there until John came along and one that he rarely heeded. The ringing ceased once he reached John's voicemail and he hung up with a snarl before redialling. The tone was louder now, so bloody close it was _frustrating –_ so dark, and so many trees...too many possibilities –

 _Oh…_

'John!' Sherlock bellowed frantically, his voice breaking uncharacteristically at the sight of his _Best Friend_ dangling from a branch by his throat, legs kicking weakly at thin air.

His eyes were open, but rolled back and his blue tinged mouth was opening and closing rapidly, desperate for air.

Jumping into action, Sherlock gripped the box cutter he carried around and tore it from the pocket of his Belstaff. Guided by the light on John's phone, several feet away – the detective noted the shine of blood, sliding down John's stubbled jaw and dripping onto his neck.

It was fortunate that John wasn't terribly far off the ground; and Sherlock's towering frame helped as he grabbed John around the waist, lifting him slightly to ease the pressure.

'John, can you hear me? Make a sound if you can,' Sherlock snapped, though his anger was not directed at the near dead man he held.

The Doctor managed a weak grunt, as Sherlock sawed through heavy rope fibres.

Teeth clenched painfully, the detective snapped the last strand and John was free. Sherlock eased him down slowly, setting the barely-conscious Doctor against the trunk of the tree.

Snarling in distaste, the detective quickly removed the loop of rope from around John's neck and tossed it aside.

'John? Come on John – eyes front please,' Sherlock barked, the unfamiliar feeling of panic coiling in his gut. The man was barely breathing, and this was not _acceptable._

'JOHN!' He tilted John forward so that his chin rested on Sherlock's shoulder. 'You need to _breathe_!'

A sharp clap to middle of the Doctor's back drew a heaving breath into his lungs – the subsequent coughing fit was harsh and long, but it gave Sherlock a chance to free John's bound wrists and excite the blood flow back into his fingers.

The fit subsided slowly and John steadied his breathing, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder. He was trembling all over and the detective, touched – though slightly bewildered that John was seeking comfort from _him_ – returned the awkward embrace.

'Oh G-god, _Sh'lck_ ,' he murmured hoarsely, voice still shaky from fear. 'T-that was b-bloody _close_.'

The Detective nodded, and pulled him back gently to examine the damage. The bruising around his throat was extensive and his face was covered in tiny red dots – petechial haemorrhaging, from where the capillary blood vessels had broken beneath his skin – most commonly seen in strangulation victims.

John was correct, it had been _too_ close.

In a moment so very unlike Sherlock, John almost thought he was hallucinating, the detective reached out, cupped the back of John's neck and gently pressed his brow against the doctor's.

'Forgive me, John – I misjudged the situation and you nearly paid for it with your life. I apologise.' Sherlock said softly and, more importantly, _sincerely._

The doctor nodded, meeting Sherlock's concerned gaze, before his brain decided he'd gone through enough trauma and dragged him into a dead faint.

* * *

It wasn't the incessant beeping of the heart monitor that woke him, nor the sting of stitches near his brow. Even the oxygen face upon his face was not to blame. It was the _very_ loud pacing of Sherlock Holmes – and yes. John knew what Sherlock pacing sounded like, because the idiot was forever wearing a track into the floor at 221B.

What he intended to say was "Christ Sherlock, give it a bloody rest!" What came out was "Sh'lck, fuuuuuck,"

It had the desired effect, regardless.

The detective froze and John managed to peel his eyes open with some difficulty. His head was fuzzy, probably a combination of concussion, oxygen deprivation and pain killers – but he could clearly read the look on Sherlock's face. The berk felt _bad_ …well it would serve him right, dangling him in front of a serial killer like a worm on a hook, only…

Eyes rimmed red, puffy – a sniffle…

'Have you been crying?' John asked, bewildered – his voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

Green-blue steel snapped up to meet his cobalt gaze and his tired face morphed into a sneer.

'Don't be _stupid_ , Watson. You know I'm allergic to hospitals,' he said primly – trying to look aghast at the suggestion of him expressing an _emotion._

John saw right through it, of course, but as he started to chuckle, his breath caught in his swollen throat and he began to cough.

 _Painfully_.

The need to breathe was overwhelming and the lack of oxygen took him back to the tree and the noose…what the bloody hell happened?

He gripped the blankets in his fist and squeezed his eyes shut. The panic was returning – his face was boiling and he knew vaguely that he was well on the way to having an anxiety att-

'John, you need to calm down,' the smooth baritone urged gently, as nimble fingers curved over his bare biceps. Sherlock took a deep, exaggerated breath, held it and then let it out slowly – he didn't need to say anything, because John knew what he was doing and slowly fell into the same pattern of breathing, allowing the panic to subside before opening his eyes.

'Thank you, 'Lock,' he rasped, accepting a proffered ice chip – the cold soothing the fire in his throat.

The detective shook his head and looked down in shame. He had wholly intended to restrain from any…emotional moments, but John nearly _died_ and Sherlock would never forgive himself if that were to happen. John may be a goldfish, but he was…special. A rare breed of goldfish that was exceptionally difficult to come by.

'Please…don't thank me. It was my stupidity and lack of forethought that nearly got you killed. If you would like, I can assist you in the packing process should you wish to leave,'

'Shut up you _berk_. I'm not going anywhere – so keep your fingers off my shit, got it? Also, self-deprecation does not suit you so get rid of it. You said dangerous, and here I am.'

A small smile lifted the corner of Sherlock's mouth as he sat in the supremely uncomfortable bedside chair.

'I do mean it though, I'm so-'

'Shut _it_ , Sherlock. Enough – I've had an awful night, and if you try to apologise again, I'll put you in a fuckin' box.' John warned, although there was no heat behind the words.

There were a couple of minutes of silence after John closed his eyes before Sherlock replied cheekily.

'I'd like to see you bloody try, Doctor Watson.'

* * *

 **I cycled through quite a few 'H' ideas before landing on this one. Hope you enjoyed!**

'


	9. Impaling

_**A/N:**_ **Just a quick one – please send in your requests for bonus chapters! What scenes would YOU like a companion to?**

 **Also, sorry for the delay!**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst, Drama

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing, blood and descriptions of injury

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 **I is for Impaling**

 _Wherein Sherlock is pinned to a wall and John is really displeased about it._

* * *

'JOHN!'

The cry is broken, desperate and _panicked._ John freezes, his stomach dropping when the call comes again, hitched in the middle with a pained sob.

' _Jo-hnnn,'_

He must be hearing things – he _has_ to be. Sherlock never admitted pain or discomfort unless it was significant.

It's the next sharp, brutal shriek, a subconscious vocalisation of extreme hurt, which has John running desperately towards the sound – through the old dock house, wary of rotten boards – lest he fall through and end up in the drink.

Their current case had taken them to the seaside, to a crotchety old fisherman who was wary of company. Even after multiple assurances that he was not a suspect and they were not the police, the man scarpered from his shack and down to the dilapidated boathouse.

Of course, Sherlock followed.

A keening moan rises from the shadows, barely heard over the sound of a motorised dinghy rocketing away down the Estuary – but John hears it.

'Sherlock?' John queries softly, stepping towards the sound, fists clenching at his side. His brow is furrowed in concentration – but he can _just_ make out the figure of his friend, pressed against the far wall.

On a bench close by, John spots a camping lantern and snatches it up, fumbling with the switch. A harsh white light fills the small area and the Doctor nearly drops the lamp when his hesitant gaze falls upon his friend.

'Jesus-fucking- _Christ,'_ he hisses, hanging the lantern on a nearby hook and nearly tripping in his haste to get to Sherlock.

The man is paler than usual and his sweat soaked hair looks like damp ink, brushed across his brow – but it's what is pinning the detective to the wall that has the Doctor concerned.

A steel rod juts from the left side of Sherlock's abdomen, just below the navel and straight through – the wall as well, by the looks of it.

Sherlock looks at him pleadingly, lips quivering in what looks like an attempt to breathe through tremendous agony. John can't oblige – they need a fucking _ambulance_ – because that rod will not be removed without significant damage, pain and excessive bleeding.

'Sherlock…I need you to keep calm, ok?' The Doctor instructs, barely able to keep his voice from shaking as he leans behind Sherlock to search for the exit point. The detective, standing only _just_ , slips a little – jostling the rod and tearing a ragged scream from his lips. John steadies him and grinds his teeth against the sound of his friend's pain.

'Easy mate,' he soothes, reaching up to brush the damp curls away. 'Did you get a good look at…?'

' _Harp-oon,'_ Sherlock grounds out, his right hand reaching out to grip at John – he needs an anchor, but more than that, he needs – 'Get this _blasted thing out of me!'_

John grimaces – a harpoon. No way is he going to risk it – not even if Sherlock begged.

' _P-please_ John…it hurts,' he sobs, unable to control anything – his Mind Palace is slowly going dark, and he can't think past the pain.

John moves his hand to cup Sherlock's cheek and gives him a sad smile.

'I'm sorry…I can't. It's stopping some of the bleeding – it'll plug the wound enough until the paramedics get here.'

At that thought, he whips out his phone and dials 999 – ready to give the details as concisely as possible. He watches Sherlock drop his head back to lean against the wall, whimpering as the vibrations jolt through the rod. John doesn't remove his hand.

As soon as he is connected, he rattles of the condition of his patient – assuring the operator that he's a doctor and can monitor and assist Sherlock until the ambulance and fire department arrive. John hangs up and returns his attention to the injured man.

'John…' the voice is soft, uncertain… _scared_.

The Doctor hates it. It means the damage is bad and he will _not_ ride that train of thought any further.

'I know mate,' he responds, tearing the fabric around the wound. The hole is wider than the rod, which was to be expected – the flesh broken initially by the head of the harpoon is ragged and bleeding copiously – more so than he anticipated. The flayed skin surrounding the wound is already black from bruising and John knows the next step is going to increase the pain tenfold. He shrugs off his corduroy jacket and unbuttons his shirt.

'Sherlock – I have to plug this up a bit more, yeah? This will help stop the rod from moving so much, but it's gonna hurt like the dickens.' John explains, keeping Sherlock's hooded gaze as he divests himself of his button down. After receiving a nod of assent from the Consulting Detective, he splays a gentle hand close to the wound and tenderly winds the fabric around the rod before pushing the wad firmly against the hole.

Sherlock shrieks again, his back arching against the pain – which is really not good for the bits of the rod _inside_ the detective. He gags against the onslaught, deaf to John's commands to keep still.

The Doctor is beginning to panic himself, because Sherlock was doing more damage writhing about – but John can't blame him, because he's no stranger to pain.

'Hey! Hey, hey, hey – Sherlock. _Sherlock!'_ John has one had pressed against his shoulder while his thumb gently rubs against the crease of pain at his brow. His voice is steady, his grip firm – but internally, John Watson his fighting for control. He knows his eyes are wet, but he also knows that is not going to help. The ETA is 30 minutes – a long time to be in pain, to suffer – so he needs to be as calm as possible to ensure the Consulting Detective lives to see another day. The injured man continues to writhe, because the pain is _unbearable._

'Sher _lock_ , listen – listen to my voice – _please_?' John's voice cracks a bit, and he thinks that may be ok, because the man stills, grey-green eyes snap open to meet his. 'Hey, that's it – you're doing great.' He holds Sherlock's gaze, moves his hands and presses the ruined shirt down further, knowing he's going to have to repeat the process on the exit wound. His fingers are slippery, the blood thick and hot against his skin. He tries not to think about it.

The jacket is sacrificed next, but the cry of pain is weaker – more resigned. John doesn't like it _one bit_.

He now has one hand pressed against his stomach, the other splayed at his lower back. He's really hoping the harpoon missed his kidney – but he doubts it.

'J'hn,' Sherlock mumbles brokenly and John squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his brow against his shoulder. It's almost like they're _hugging._

'No,' John mutters, because he knows where this is going.

Another breathless gasp of his name and long, trembling fingers wrap around his wrist. A tear escapes and he can't swipe it away.

'Shuddup Sherlock. No more talking.' He abandons the calm and collected act, because he knows Sherlock can see right through it – even in this state. It feels like there's a brick in his throat and his face is _burning_ from the effort of holding everything in.

'P-please… _listen_ ,' his friend begs and John looks up.

Sherlock looks utterly wrecked. His face is chalky, but his eyes are rimmed red and wet. A tear trails down his nose.

'It _hurts,_ ' he admits, chest heaving with effort. 'I _need_ it to st- _op_.'

John sniffs and nods. 'I know mate and it will – I _promise_ , but you need to stay calm, take measured breaths and…Sherlock?'

His eyes are closed, but he's still breathing. His pulse is thready, but there. John thinks he may have succumbed to the pain, but then, he blinks and looks back down at his friend.

'M here,' he assures with a quick upturn of his lips.

'Yeah, good that. Make sure it stays that way – eh?' John replies, closing his own eyes briefly.

He continues talking to Sherlock, nonsense really – but he's still babbling on when emergency services arrive. They allow him to stay, purely because he's managed to keep his friend conscious and relatively calm the entire time. It's when they bring out the angle grinder that John loses steam, because _oh boy_ , it was going to hurt more than anything thus far.

'Hey, Sherlock?' The man replies with a grunt to indicate he's listening. 'They're going to cut the head off the harpoon, ok? I want you to look at me – here, take my hand – look at me and squeeze if it hurts too much, kay?'

Sherlock nods and laces his fingers with the Doctors, grip weak – but there.

The tool starts up and John clenches his jaw – it's when the blade touches the metal that he can't tell which is louder; the whir of the grinder against steel, or Sherlock's screams.

* * *

This is a new hell, for Sherlock. He can feel the vibrations through the rod and it is nothing short of _agony_. Every nerve ending is on fire and his throat is raw from screaming. There's a hand on his face – short, callused fingers brushing away his tears. The other hand grips his fingers, grounding him.

 _John…_

He cries again, saliva dripping from his lip – metallic, bloody. John is crying too, his bottom lip trembling as he hushes him, tells him it will be alright, that he won't leave his side.

'Jo- _hn!_ ' his voice sounds wrong to him – high and desperate - and he wants it to stop, he can't - no _more…_

They make it through the rod and Sherlock slips forward, against John – his friend – and manages to thank him before he's lost to darkness.

* * *

Sherlock is in surgery for seventeen hours. From what they tell John, the internal damage is extensive – the harpoon did, in fact, puncture his kidney – effectively turning it to mincemeat.

They lost him three times.

John is fucking _shattered_ by the time they come out. He's already called Lestrade, tears impossible to stop – because the Doctor knows that Greg loves Sherlock like a son and won't begrudge his fear. He calls Mycroft too, but manages to keep his emotions in check for that conversation.

The DI is sitting next to him, but rises quickly, nudging John gently as a flustered looking nurse approaches hurriedly.

'Doctor John Watson?'

He jumps to his feet, adrenaline surging through his body at the look on her face.

'What is it, what's going on?' he demands, lack of sleep making him snappier than usual.

'He's just been moved to recovery, but he's…irrational. He won't allow the nursing staff to assist…'

'Sherlock's _conscious?_ ' Lestrade asks, bewildered.

The nurse nods and then gestures at John to follow her.

'We didn't even get a chance to push the next dose of morphine before he lost it – he's probably in agony – but he's asking for you and I have a feeling you'll get him sorted, Doctor Watson.'

John only vaguely registers her words, because as they draw closer to the recovery ward, he can hear Sherlock bellowing nonsensical abuse at all and sundry.

He's standing, if only just – legs bowed and hands shaking like he's warding off a demon. A gentle breeze could probably knock him over at this stage.

'Sherlock _Holmes_!' the Captain snaps; gaining Sherlock's attention. 'What in the _world_ do you think you're playing at?'

Despite John's slightly aggressive tone, his gaze is soft as he assesses the mental state of his best friend. Adverse effect to the anaesthesia, he'd wager, causing paranoia and confusion.

'J-John, please…' he begs, although, for what – the Doctor is uncertain. As soon as he reaches Sherlock, his legs buckle and John catches him mid slump.

'Oh _Sherlock_ …come on mate, let's not be difficult – eh? Do you have much pain?' John asks, lifting Sherlock gently onto the trolley and easing him onto his side.

The detective nods and watches the Doctor accept the prepared dose of morphine from a trainee nurse, who looks utterly terrified at the turn of events.

John brushes his thumb over Sherlock's clenched fist and gives him a reassuring smile.

It is not required; he knows the detective trusts him with his life.

He pushes the full dose into the cannula, and sighs in relief as the lines of pain disappear from Sherlock's face. The man is bleary now – lids at half-mast as he fights sleep. John will allow the nurses to finish their job in a moment. He crouches down by Sherlock and weaves his fingers into the errant curls.

'Rest now, yeah? Be good and I'll see you when you wake up,' he assures the man quietly.

Sherlock blinks, his eyes are expressive – more so, John thinks – than he has ever seen before.

'You'll be there?' he asks, almost childlike, which is hilarious; because Sherlock isn't far behind the Doctor as far as years go.

John's eyes crinkle as his smile widens. It's hard to believe that the man on the bed is honestly his best friend.

'I promise,' he confirms.


	10. Joint

_**A/N:**_ **This bloody letter gave me no end of trouble. I can see why people give up on A – Z stories…but fear not, I like to improvise and as such, this chapter is a bit different.**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst, humour

 _ **Rated:**_ M for swearing, blood and mild medicinal drug use

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 **J is for Joint**

 _The one where John is injured in a remote area and Sherlock offers alternative pain relief_

* * *

After hours in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone – the old shack looked like a five star resort. Thanking God would have been a waste of breath, but Sherlock surely owed this little miracle _some_ gratitude.

The Consulting Detective spared his companion a worried glance – John was pale and shaky, which was to be expected, after the unfortunate incident involving a steep incline and a rusted fox trap. He held his foot off the ground gingerly, careful not to agitate the tattered flesh of his calf and using the Consulting Detective as a crutch, shuffled toward the hovel.

Ever the soldier, not one complaint was uttered about pain – but Sherlock could see it in the set of John's shoulders and the way his lips pressed together tightly as they walked. There was also an alarming amount of blood for him to still be standing, but again, Sherlock figured that soldier within was in complete control. Finish the mission – in this case, getting to relative safety.

They were so close, when John began to retch – doubling over with a groan, he vomited spectacularly – pitching forward as if to follow it.

The Consulting Detective tightened his grip, holding the man steady, all the while ignoring the nasty little voice in his Mind Palace that sounded like Moriarty.

 _Sociopaths aren't supposed to care._

Well, there's always an exception to the rule.

John took a shuddering breath, wiped his lips with the sleeve of his sodden jumper and leaned his bloody head against Sherlock's shoulder.

'We're so c-close,' he managed through chattering teeth. 'I _can't_ …mmm…I don't…'

He was too embarrassed to admit that the last few feet to the door seemed like a bloody mile. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, huffed good-naturedly and heaved the good doctor over his shoulder, despite vocal protests and the fists beating at the middle of his back.

'Oh, be still John – never be ashamed to admit you need assistance. You are repeatedly reminding me of this yourself.' Sherlock said imperiously. 'Look, the door – that wasn't too difficult, was it?'

Very gently, the Detective lowered his friend, noting his pallor and tutting subconsciously. It was going to be difficult, treating the man – is injuries were severe enough to be concerning, but with the intensity of the storm and their remote location, getting medical assistance was going to be difficult.

Ensuring his grip on John was secure and hoping the door wasn't locked, Sherlock twisted the handle and nudged it open with his shoulder.

The interior was dim, but not entirely unpleasant – it was dry and warm, for starters – and it looked to be fairly well stocked, although it clearly hadn't been used in some time. When Sherlock spied the bed, he was closer to thanking non-existent deities than he ever had been.

'Come along Watson,' he murmured, leading a very tired John across the room. 'How's the pain?'

The Doctor grunted, but his next breath came as a poorly disguised sob.

'Fine,' John hissed through clenched teeth as he lowered himself onto the mattress.

Sherlock scoffed. 'I'm a detective, remember? I know you're lying,'

Leaning back against the pillows, he glared with one eye but remained silent as his friend began to divest him of his sodden clothes.

'Leave the pants for now,' he ground out, looking down at the mess of torn flesh and denim, puffing his cheeks out in a shaky breath.

The Detective winced, but nodded in agreement. 'I'll see if I can find a First Aid Kit and some painkillers.'

Sherlock's search turned up far more than he had hoped in the way of medical supplies, although the lack of opioid-based pain relief was frustrating. He did, however, discover several hundred dollars' worth of pot, which was far better than any kind of addictive prescription medication.

'I am _not_ smoking a bloody _joint,_ Sherlock!' John cried when presented with a finely rolled spliff.

'Surely, as a doctor – you can see the medicinal benefits smoking marijuana can have? It is a non-addictive substance and is effective in not only reducing pain, but increasing relaxation!' Sherlock countered indignantly.

It wasn't like he wanted to get John high for the hell of it – he was in agony, and although he hid it well, it would eventually take its toll.

'Yes, _Sherlock_ – I am aware of the properties of marijuana, but I could lose my medical licence!'

The Detective scowled. John would refuse for now, but Sherlock was just as stubborn, if not more so, than the good doctor.

'Have it your way then, Doctor. Do let me know if you change your mind,' he conceded with a huff.

He gently cleaned the head wound first, pleased to see that it wasn't as bad as it looked. That was something, at least.

Procrastination would only last so long, however. John's leg wound was severe and after a trek through the woods through torrential rain, infection was a high probability.

'Just bloody get on with it, Sherlock.' John ground out. Every breath seemed to throb through his leg.

The detective faintly noticed John clutching the side of the mattress in a white knuckled grip, propped up slightly and ready to offer verbal assistance if necessary.

That idea went right out the window the moment Sherlock began to separate the denim from his flesh.

'BLOODY _FUCK_!' He bellowed, falling back against the pillow with a strangled sob. The Doctor shook so hard that Sherlock thought he was seizing.

'John?' He ventured, unsure.

' _Shit_ …Christ that _hurt_ ,' John responded.

The Detective sighed, knelt on the floor by the bed and brushed shaky fingers across John's brow.

'I don't like it,' he admitted softly, avoiding his gaze. 'You're in pain and I _hate_ it. I can't take it away myself and I don't want to make it worse when I dress your wounds.'

It was a lot – from Sherlock. John rarely saw this side of his friend and although he secretly enjoyed being one of the only people this side _ever_ surfaced for, it was also good at making him feel guilty as shit.

His Best Friend was subconsciously manipulating him into smoking weed.

John nodded in agreement, took the joint from Sherlock's fingers and pressed it between his lips.

'If I get caught…'

'If you get caught, John – I will blackmail Mycroft into making it go away.' The detective assured.

The doctor snorted and took a deep breath. 'Got a light?'

Sherlock gave him a small smile and struck a match.

* * *

As the Doctor puffed, the room filled with a rich, earthy smell and Sherlock had to move away, lest he get room stoned. He'd probably get a little giggly as it was.

John made it about halfway through before butting it out and sighing happily, the lines of pain across his brow easing somewhat.

'You're a genius, Sherlock,' he gushed, a slow smile creeping across his face. 'This is _muuuuch_ better than hurty John.'

The Detective felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. While his intentions weren't to get John stoned for entertainment purposes, the effect it was having on the man would be amusing.

'Very good, Doctor Watson,' Sherlock agreed, giving John's knee a friendly pat before examining the wound closely. He proceeded with caution, but John barely winced as the Detective continued to separate denim from flesh.

The room was comfortably silent for several minutes before John spoke once again.

'Doubt you're a sociopath,' he slurred with a smile, his fingers tapping tunelessly against the mattress. 'You wouldn't be this concerned with my pain.'

Sherlock snorted. 'You're a doctor, John – not a psychologist. Stop analysing me.' He replied, his nose crinkling as the wound was revealed in its entirety.

Admittedly, it was a bit not good.

John giggled and closed his eyes, sinking into the floaty feeling.

'I may not be, _Sherlock_ – you are _my_ Best Friend, and…I love you very much, so I say you're **not** a sociopath.

At the utterance of the 'L' word, Sherlock's head jerked up; eyes wide as he looked at the doctor…who was well and truly stoned by this point.

The doctor rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face never wavered.

'See, I _know_ exactly what you're thinking – don't be a prude. Humans can love each other platonically. I would die for you, I _have_ killed for you and you could bloody be rest assured that if I couldn't die for you, I'd die with you. Now wipe that stupid look off your face and fix my leg. I may have to have another if you let it wear off.'

Sherlock was still frozen by John's strange admittance. He could see it in John's eyes – despite being high, the man meant every word.

Humbled and just a little embarrassed, Sherlock finally turned away in an attempt to hide the pleased smile creeping across his lips.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this one! Keep those reviews coming – the alphabet is hard and I need motivation**


	11. Kidneys

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing & descriptions of pain

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 _ **Setting**_ : Between TLD and TFP

 **K is for Kidneys**

 _Where Sherlock ends up with stones due to poor treatment of his kidneys; and John is more than a bit guilty._

* * *

'John!' Sherlock cries from the living room, setting Rosie down gently on the rug and vomits spectacularly in the fireplace.

This, of course, sets off a rather loud chain reaction of screaming toddler and further heaving on Sherlock's part.

Harried steps echo through the hall as John races to the scene, knotting the tie on his bathrobe as he goes.

As expected, the Doctor takes care of the wailing child first, scooping Rosie up with practised ease and cuddling her to his chest.

'Oh come now, honeybee – daddy's here,' he soothes, pressing a kiss to her downy blonde head.

The Detective, who has been blatantly _ignoring_ the growing malaise for the better part of three days, continues to puke.

John watches on with a furrowed brow, bouncing his child to calm her.

' _Jo_ _ **hn**_ …' the younger man grunts between heaves, sinking gracelessly to his knees and curling forward until his head is resting against the floor.

'Right…I'll just pop downstairs and see if Mrs H can take Rosie for a bit…'

The Doctor is at loathe leaving his friend for even a moment – but he won't be able to help Sherlock if he has his girl to worry about too.

Mrs Hudson answers his knock promptly, her hair in rollers and a ready smile.

'Couldn't take Rosie overnight could you Mrs H? Sherlock's taken ill, I'm afraid…I may have to get him to the hospital…'

He flashes a self-deprecating smile, bouncing Rosie on his hip as she sniffles.

Mrs Hudson's smile broadens. 'Don't be silly John, I'd be happy to take her. You see to that idiot boy and let me know how he's getting on.'

She reaches out, easily sliding the toddler from John's arms and bringing her close. For someone who never had children, she certainly has a maternal streak a mile long. Probably all that practice with Sherlock.

'Ta, Mrs H. I owe you one…I'll get to the bottom of it, don't you worry.'

When John returns to the flat, Sherlock hasn't moved from his position but it still sounds like his stomach was trying to escape up his throat.

'Have you taken anything?' John asks with a grimace, searching his medical bag for a thermometer.

The glare he receives in response is enough to derail that line of questioning.

The Doctor takes a moment to analyse his friend. Sherlock is still malnourished following his marathon drug binge, but he looks paler than usual – eyes rimmed red from the effort of throwing up.

Finally done retching, Sherlock climbs to his feet shakily and shuffles the short distance to his armchair.

'How long have you been feeling unwell?' The Doctor queries next, slipping the thermometer under the man's tongue.

Lying back, Sherlock holds up three fingers and ignores the sigh he gets in reply.

'Symptoms?' John continues - eyes narrowing as the thermometer beeps a reading of 39.8.

The Detective doesn't respond, but his breathing is heavy and the Doctor is starting to suspect that his friend is in quite a bit of pain and trying to hide it.

' _Sherlock...'_

His tone is a warning, and when Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, the only sound to escape is a desperate whimper.

As John examines the younger man, his focus has been entirely professional, but at the utterance of that small sound of pain, he stops and catches Sherlock's pained gaze.

Ever since...the incident, their relationship is beginning to change. Despite Sherlock's endless platitudes and insistence, John still hates himself for assaulting Sherlock and almost being too late to save his life. Every time he catches a glimpse of that bloodshot eye or the line of stitches that adorns his brow, John fights the urge to be physically ill.

Now...

' _John_ ,' the strained plea brings John back to his senses, and burying his self-loathing, continues to examine his friend.

'How bad is the pain?' The doctor asks, subconsciously reaching up to brush a damp curl from Sherlock's brow.

The man grunts, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as he fists the wool of John's jumper.

 _'_ Fuck _this_ ,' he growls, allowing his head to fall forward and rest against John's good shoulder.

Sherlock swearing is _definitely_ not a good sign, neither were his current comfort-seeking actions. John takes it all in stride and weaves his fingers through damp curls.

'I need you to talk to me Sherlock. So I can help you,' he insists gently, pulling back to see Sherlock's face.

John is shocked to find red rimmed eyes full of tears and a jaw clenched so tightly he can almost hear the teeth grinding.

'Hey. Hey, hey...easy Sherl, pain's bad huh? Alright, let me have a look, yeah?'

Sherlock nods shakily, but flinches when John's hands slip under his shirt; palpitating the lower right quadrant of his abdomen.

' _Not_ appendicitis,' Sherlock grinds out, curling further into John – his hot breath skating rapidly against the doctor's neck.

John believes him…he is guarding higher up and trying to apply pressure towards his back.

Ah.

'Has there been any blood in your urine?' John asks bluntly, pressing his fingers against the soft part of Sherlock's lower back.

The Detective all but shrieks and his grip in John's jumper tightens further.

'Ok, ok… _Jesus…_ deep breaths Sherlock. That's it.' The Doctor hushes, moving his hand to cup the damp skin at the back of his friend's neck – a subconscious facsimile of the way Sherlock held him, only several days past.

Judging by the level of pain Sherlock is in and with prior knowledge of his recent renal failure, John would bet his pay check that the man's kidneys are rebelling.

' _Yes…_ to your question. About the blood…' Sherlock hisses through heavy breaths. 'It hurts to piss…'

John sighs wearily. 'Oh mate, I just bet it bloody does. Can you tell me how bad it hurts?'

'W-worse than getting shot,' he admits with a pained chuckle. 'Pretty significantly…and that was an eight on the stupid scale you mundane doctors tend to measure pain against.'

The Doctor rolls his eyes, because he knows that the snarky attitude is a cover for the agony he was in…and a flimsy one at that.

'Right-o then, let's get you to the hospital then…ambulance or cab?' John asks, checking his watch. It's just after 8pm on a Friday night, so either will be a difficult ask.

'No hospitals, John. Not unless it becomes necessary,' Sherlock growls, moving slowly away but hesitant to loosen his grip on John.

'Sher _lock_ …it became necessary when you started peeing blood. I think you may have Kidney Stones and the pain you're in now, is going to get _a lot_ worse. You need to be on heavy medication.' The Doctor argues, frustration bubbling over.

Yes…well, I don't care. We'll manage it here for as long as possible and if the pain becomes too much, I will concede. Until then, please assist me to my room.'

'Sherlock…'

' _John_! I was nearly just _murdered_ in a hospital…had you been but a minute later than you were, we wouldn't be having this conversation!'

Well…Shit.

John wasn't expecting that, but he softens nonetheless, ignoring the pang of guilt. Sighing, the doctor stands and pulls Sherlock up slowly.

As they move to his room, John has a feeling it won't be terribly long until things go to hell in a handcart.

* * *

Of course, John is right – after getting Sherlock settled in bed with some paracetamol and relaxing to finish the crime novel that his friend mocked him tirelessly for purchasing, barely two hours pass before there is an almighty crash from down the hall. John has never jumped to his feet so quickly in his life.

He tosses the book aside without marking his place and sprints to Sherlock's room like he has the devil at his heels.

Knocking is a courtesy he doesn't bother with and as the door is flung open, slamming against the adjacent wall, John nearly loses the ability to form thoughts.

His _best friend_ is twisted on the floor, clutching himself so tightly his knuckles are white. Sherlock's face is alarmingly red and wet with tears; there is blood dribbling down his chin because the idiot has bitten right though his lip to stop himself from screaming.

John is on his knees in seconds, speaking softly – resting his palm against Sherlock's brow – recoiling in horror at the heat he finds there.

'Christ, _Sherlock_ ,' John admonishes softly, trying to untangle the younger man.

'No. _NO!_ ' Sherlock cries, and now that his lower lip is free from the prison of his teeth, the Detective – who used to be so cold and emotionless – is fucking _sobbing_.

Full on, snot inducing, limb trembling sobs – and John is at a loss.

No, really.

This Sherlock is so… _alien_ to him, but the unusual display of emotion and gut wrenching _pain_ breaks an emotional barrier John was not aware he possessed.

'Oh, Sherl,' he breathes, voice cracking as he carefully pulls the younger man close to him. Sherlock is gasping now, and his skin is so hot that John doesn't need a thermometer to tell him that he's gone over 40. He pulls out his phone, dialling 999 and presses the device to his ear while the other hand is busy thumbing the tears from Sherlock's cheeks.

Blue/green/silver stares at him, glazed with pain and fever as John speaks to the operator – an urgency in his tone that belies his seemingly calm exterior.

Sherlock is almost calm again when a particularly nasty shard of pain digs into his lower back and this time he does scream, before falling limp against his best friend.

* * *

When Sherlock returns to consciousness, he is thankfully, quite numb. An antiseptic tang hits his nostrils and he knows that at some point during the night, a hospital became necessary.

John is, as always, right by his side – dozing fitfully in a rather uncomfortable looking chair – but the doctor doesn't sleep much longer. It's like he can sense that Sherlock is awake and just minutes after the detective opens his eyes, John rouses and peers down at his friend.

'You utter bloody _moron_.' He hisses, scrubbing his tired face and sighing. 'If you hadn't fallen out of bed, I never would have realised that your fever was so high.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to respond, only to be cut off. Clearly the doctor hasn't finished.

'You were in so much pain; you bit through your lip. Do you want to know what your temp was at your admittance? 41.7 – yeah. You seized in the ambulance and they had to dump you in an _ice bath_.'

The detective looks away – he can't place the emotion on John's face, but it makes him want to hide.

'You _scared_ me,' John finishes softly, reaching out to squeeze the younger man's shoulder.

''M sorry,' Sherlock replies hoarsely, looking back to his friend knowing he would find only honesty.

The doctor smiles. 'Well, just tell me next time you don't feel right and maybe you won't send me prematurely grey. Now go to sleep – you're not stepping one foot out of this hospital until the stone passes, got it?'

Sherlock finds the energy to smirk in response.

'Wouldn't dream of it, _Doctor Watson._ '

* * *

 **I know the POV is a little jumpy – as is the tense. Let me know what you think!**


	12. Laceration

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 **L is for Laceration**

 _The one where John receives a rather nasty cut at a crime scene and nearly dies as a result_

* * *

John gripped the edge of the catwalk tighter, ignoring the explosion of pain in his bad shoulder. _Perhaps_ , he thought distantly, _it wasn't such a good idea to split up._

He and Sherlock had been chasing a suspect through the dark industrial estate, when he disappeared into the building – a dilapidated steel plant, rusted and disused – but not yet ready to be demolished. Upon noting the sheer _size_ of the factory, The Detective didn't so much _suggest_ they split up, but he did swan off into the darkness with instructions to phone if there were any hiccups.

Well…dangling from a rusted footbridge after a tousle with a criminal _undoubtedly_ warranted the title of 'hiccup' – and the suspect certainly wasn't going to be murdering anyone ever again, due to the permanent nature of his _injuries_.

Fingers slick with sweat, John slipped minutely. He didn't have the energy to call out to Sherlock _or_ pull himself up…he was going to fall and this was a rather dangerous place to do so. There was a lot of rusted steel jutting out of dark places, so much so that John didn't even feel the jagged length pressing into the soft skin of his wrist until he began to fall and a line of fire was gouged across his forearm.

The sudden pain snapped John's focus back into place, long enough for him to pray the corpse below would cushion his fall.

* * *

As it turned out, sometimes – if you pray with enough fervor, God may just cut you a bit of slack. That was one theory, anyway and John toyed with it for several moments as he rolled off the dead criminal with a groan. That was about as far as he got though.

He was so inexplicably _tired_ , that he feared he may actually fall asleep on the dirty floor of a steel plant…but _why_ was the exhaustion so all encompassing? Why was the darkness itself tilting like a carnival ride? He glanced down and recoiled at the sight of his right arm.

Well, shit. That would be why.

That _really_ was a bit not good.

In the dark, and through the copious amounts of blood pulsing from the wound – John could make out a Very Serious Problem that travelled from wrist to elbow, gaping, deep and very life threatening.

 _Very._

There was no time to waste and even with his energy flagging and darkness threatening to overwhelm him, the good doctor managed to tug his thankfully undamaged mobile from his pocket.

Foresight was also very handy, it seemed.

Quite a while ago, John had managed to type up a few _SOS_ text messages to Sherlock – coding them by level of urgency. He saved them in his drafts folder and instructed that Sherlock do the same.

It was still difficult, navigating his way to the message drafts – his mind was fuzzy and slow; fingers numb – eventually, though, he found the one he was looking for.

He hit send and hoped Sherlock was close enough to render assistance.

* * *

Sherlock was on the other side of the plant when the SMS came through.

He pulled the phone from his Belstaff and immediately, his heart seized in panic.

 _SOS: Code Red. Come Immediately – JW_

Code Red was the worst code. It was the message saved only for the most severe of situations, when injuries definitely had the potential to be Life Threatening.

John _would not_ send this message lightly.

All thoughts of capturing a murderer fled from his mind as he turned and ran through the factory, pulling up John's number and connecting the call.

After several moments, he could hear the tinny tone echoing through the large space – Sherlock raced towards it, faintly surprised he hadn't tripped in the dark. It was like he had sonar, and could sense any obstacles – even in the dark.

The moment the call went to voicemail, Sherlock hung up and called again. The tone was closer now, louder and the detective knew he was close.

 _Must be on the main floor_ , he thought distantly.

'John! _John!'_ He called almost frantically, hoping for a clear response.

He got a mumbled groan, but it was enough.

Two forms were splayed on the concrete – one of them, the suspect – was dead.

The other… _shit_ …

Sherlock swiped through his phone and selected the flashlight app, thumbing the icon and wincing at the sudden brightness.

John was utterly white and there was blood _everywhere_ – the man was barely conscious, but fighting – clutching his arm hard against his chest.

'Sh'lck,' he slurred, blinking rapidly.

'I'm here…let me have a look,' the detective snapped, his emotions flaring at the sight of his friend so mentally distant. He pulled his arm aside, expecting to see a stab wound to the gut – but was surprised, instead, to see the disgustingly deep gash on his forearm.

' _Fuck,_ ' he hissed, clamping a hand tightly around the wound. He was no medical genius, but even he knew that lacerations of this severity usually resulted in exsanguination very _quickly_.

Sherlock quickly dialed Lestrade's number and thumbed the speaker before resting the phone on John's chest. He needed two hands for this.

'T'll him…' John began weakly, his dark cobalt eyes glazed in exhaustion. 'Stage 3…h-h-hypovolemia,'

The detective nodded, and flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

'You'll be fine, John…' He assured, sighing in relief as the DI answered his phone sharply.

' _Sherlock, its bloody midnight and I've just finished my shift – this better be good.'_

'Ambulance is required urgently, Lestrade, and they come far quicker when requested by the Police.'

' _You alright mate?'_ Came the concerned reply.

'I'm fine. John is not…tell them he has a severe laceration to his right forearm that has nicked the artery. He's in Stage three Hypovolemia and struggling to remain conscious. He needs an immediate blood transfusion, type O-Negative.'

' _Fucking Hell – alright, hang tight – I'll send the Calvary. Is there anything else?'_

'Yes, suspect is dead, second ambulance is required… do hurry up!'

Sherlock rattled off the address and rang off, turning his entire focus to John. His eyes were closed, and the detective panicked, even though he could still feel a pulse, weak as it was.

'John, wake up for me,' he barked, tapping the man's cheek. 'I don't know what to _do_!'

Blinking owlishly, the Doctor gave his friend a small smile.

'Doin' great 'Lock…noth'n much left,' He assured, lids drooping.

'Yes, well…the ambulance should be here soon, can you stay awake until then?' Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

John nodded. 'I'll do mi best…wish they would _hurry_ …so…sleepy,'

Sherlock held the wound tighter, hoping that his friend could hold on for just a little longer.

* * *

John couldn't remember losing consciousness and yet, he was blinking awake to the sharp smell of hospital grade antiseptic and the heavy fuzz of morphine.

His right arm felt heavy and although he'd been out for an indeterminate amount of time, he still felt inexplicably exhausted.

Any attempts to sit were waylaid by a twinge of pain lancing up his forearm.

'Take it easy, John.' Sherlock's soothing baritone washed over the ex-soldier and he allowed himself to relax and rid himself of the momentary panic building in his chest.

'How long was I out?' John asked groggily, allowing his friend to raise the bed slightly.

'Nearly three days. You lost a lot of blood,' Sherlock replied, holding a plastic cup to the Doctor's lips.

John sipped slowly, allowing the information to sink in.

It must have been serious for him to be unconscious for that long.

'You had to have surgery,' Sherlock supplied, as though he could read John's thoughts.

The Doctor looked down at his heavily bandaged forearm and morbidly wondered if there were any photographs.

'We're never splitting up again,' the detective murmured, almost hesitantly – earning a look of shock from the Doctor. 'The texts are a brilliant idea, John – but…if I had been further away…'

There was a lengthy silence.

'I nearly died, didn't I?' John queried curiously.

'You did…during surgery. You kept losing it faster than they could replace it.'

'Sorry mate,'

Sherlock stiffened, eyes suspiciously wet as he rose from the visitor chair.

'Yes, well – let's avoid this in future, shall we?'

'Sherl-'

'Please, John…I can't see that again,'

Instead of replying, John nodded, gave the man a smile and fell back to sleep – too tired to be aware of the hand gently curling around his own.

* * *

 **I originally wrote something different for 'L'. I completely finished the chapter before deciding I didn't like it.**

 **Please review – I know you want to!**


	13. Mistletoe

_**A/N:**_ **I thought I'd treat you to another update as I've been rather slow lately. Enjoy, and don't forget to review!**

 **BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Drama

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 **M is for Mistletoe**

 _Wherein Sherlock is poisoned by biscuits on Christmas Eve and John kind of keeps a clear head._

* * *

He had assumed they were left out by Mrs. Hudson – the delicious smelling jam-filled cookies – a Christmas treat for her boys.

Of course, having not eaten for days, the first thing Sherlock did was make a cup of tea for dunking.

It wasn't until half an hour later that The Detective realized that something _sinister_ was occurring.

The young man heaved, filling the bucket between his knees as he sat, trembling on the toilet. Not exactly something he wanted John to come home to – it was all very… _humiliating_.  
It took him a further hour of constant vomiting and worsening abdominal cramps for him to grit his teeth and send a Very Urgent Message to John.

 _Come home immediately and don't eat the biscuits – SH_

Several minutes passed before a response came through.

 _I'm_ _ **working**_ **.** _I can't always drop everything for you, Sherlock – JW_

The Detective groaned; his head rolling forwards to rest on the rim of the bucket, despite the smell and phoned John, thumbing the device to speaker .

'Sher _lock_ , its Christmas Eve and I'm busy! This better be bloody good!' John growled upon answering the phone.

The sociopath groaned, opened his mouth to explain and instead, released another torrent of vomit into the rapidly filling vessel.

'J-J-aaaawn,' Sherlock managed weakly, his stomach clenching painfully as he tried vainly to swallow the saliva pooling in his cheeks.

'Sherlock, mate – are you alright?' The Doctor queried, his tone shifting from exasperation to concern. He should've figured there was something wrong the moment his friend phoned him.

The Detective preferred to text, after all.

'D-Don't…' a heave cut him off and he squeezed his eyes shut at the fire in his throat. 'Don't eat the _biscuits_.'

'Alright, alright – relax Sherlock, I'm leaving now. Hold on, I'll be as quick as I can,' John reassured softly, trying not be affected by the soft whimpers he could hear from his friend.

'Kay,' Sherlock replied tiredly, sighing as the call disconnected. He would have to tidy himself up a bit. It would _not_ do for his friend to find him asleep on the toilet with his trousers around his ankles.

* * *

Sherlock had _not_ sounded well at all. The man was a huge fan of ignoring common ailments until they either went away or escalated. He may accept the Doctor's care when John's being particularly insistent, but he's never outright requested his medical assistance before now.

Despite the look of disapproval on Sarah's face as he explained the situation, he beat a hasty retreat from the clinic – far too concerned about Sherlock's wellbeing to think about what this could mean for his job. Family came first and damn it if he didn't love the stupid man like his own flesh and blood.

He flagged down a cab and slid into the back seat, offering the driver a tip if he could just take the _fastest_ route possible to Baker Street.

By the time they pulled up to the dark green door, John was just tempted to give the man his credit card – the cabbie had him home in less than fifteen minutes, quite the feat given the rush for last minute shopping.

Profusely thanking the man, John handed over an excessive amount of money and climbed from the cab, already holding the front door key.

It took only moments to gain access to the building and John didn't even bother to check if the door had shut behind him before leaping up the stairs, calling out frantically for Sherlock.

'Bathr'm,' the feeble reply came when John called out from the living room, nose twitching as the overpowering smell of vomit wafted down the hall. The Doctor shrugged off his coat and snatched up his medical bag, racing toward the bathroom, panic rising with every step. Twisting the knob and shouldering the door open, the stench hit him full force – not just vomiting had occurred here, which was made clear by the fact that Sherlock was balanced precariously on the loo with this designer pants tangled around his feet. His head was mostly in the bucket wedged between his thighs, the sound of retching echoing from within the plastic.

'Christ, _Sherlock_!' John hissed, rushing forward - ignoring the awful combination of odors that pervaded his senses. His friend was bloody _sick_.

Gently, The Doctor raised Sherlock's head from the bucket, ignoring the younger man's protests as he caught site of the contents, streaked heavily with crimson.

'Fuck _me_! Sherlock, hey – mate take it easy,' John soothed as the Detective held the bucket close.

'G'way…'m not decent,' he mumbled, flushing at the realization that his plan to clean up before John returned was _not_ followed through.

John bit his lip - this was serious…judging by the amount of blood in his vomit, Sherlock was bleeding internally and severely so.

'Have you flushed mate?' The Doctor asked, earning a half-hearted glare from the ill man.

'My _business_ is none of _yours_ ,' he slurred, saliva coating his lips as he leaned back into the bucket to spew.

John rolled his eyes and flung the shower curtain aside, fiddling with the taps in the cubicle until the temperature was just right.

'Listen to me, _now_ Sherlock. I'm going to help you get the rest of your clothes off and then you're going to rinse yourself off. Do _not_ flush the loo – there's no need to be ashamed, I'm your doctor and your _friend_.'

For several moments, John thought the man was going to fight him – but miraculously, Sherlock conceded with a slight nod and the doctor got to work removing his pants completely.

'J-Jh'n…if I don't remember this – please _don't_ remind me,' Sherlock requested softly, allowing John to take the bucket and standing with his assistance.

The doctor smiled reassuringly. 'I won't…unless you piss me off. Now get in the tub, under the spray – there's a good lad – I'll get you some clean clothes, yeah?'

Groaning in discomfort, Sherlock stumbled into the tub and curled his long body up tightly, directly under the spray. John pulled the curtain closed to give the man some privacy before opening his Med Kit and slapping on a pair of nitrite gloves.

'I'm just going to take some samples for the hospital, okay? Then I'll get you some fresh clothes,' John called over the sound of the water hitting Sherlock. It was unnecessary babble, but when the Detective grunted his response, the Doctor was pleased that he was still conscious.

Locating a couple of specimen jars, John first scooped up a portion of vomit from the bucket and secured it and a small hazard bag before moving to the loo to examine the contents.

 _Oh God…_ John thought; a heavy weight of dread settling in his gut. His fears had been confirmed – Sherlock was _indeed_ bleeding internally. Retching came from behind the curtain as Sherlock vomited again, following it, a frustrated sob.

'It'll be alright, Sherlock. Easy now…tell me how you feel,' John asked lightly, taking his second sample and sealing it away before dumping the contents of the bucket down the toilet and flushing it away.

'Unghhh… _shit_ ,' The Detective replied softly, almost tearfully.

John chuckled, although there was no humor in it. This wasn't exactly the way he'd envisioned they'd spend their Christmas.

'Right – will you be ok for a second? I'm just going to call for an ambulance.'

It was difficult, keeping up the comforting, easy talk – because Sherlock was not, by any means, an idiot. He knew how much trouble he was in – how serious this was, and yet – John continued to be light and airy, when he was quite literally moments away from panic himself.

Sherlock grunted another affirmation and John slipped through the second door and into The Detective's bedroom, dialing 999 on his phone as he gathered some comfortable clothes.

He gave the operator the details of the patient, assured her that he had samples for the hospital, which, in turn, reminded him to grab one of the "biscuits" that Sherlock had warned him about – for testing.

As John rang off, a loud thump from the bathroom caught his attention, and he was back in the small room in moments. All thoughts of privacy forgotten, the Doctor pulled the curtain aside with some force and lunged forward, slipping his hand between Sherlock's head and the porcelain tub as sudden convulsions rocked his slim frame.

John could feel his eyes burning with tears as the younger man grunted and keened through the violent seizure. What the _hell_ had happened? Where had the biscuits come from and how long had it been since Sherlock consumed them?

All these thoughts clashed with each other as John muttered soothingly to his friend as he shook in the tub, his free hand carding through damp curls. As an afterthought, he reached up and turned the water off, waiting patiently for the seizure to abate before drying Sherlock off and dressing him comfortably.

He did not regain consciousness before the Ambulance arrived.

* * *

Once John handed all samples off to the appropriate staff members, he was left to his own devices. He made several attempts to contact Mycroft and gave up before calling Lestrade and updating him about the strange plate of poisoned biscuits that somehow ended up on their dining table.

The night passed at an impossibly slow pace and it was just after 11pm when a small Indian woman appeared before him in green scrubs.

She looked exhausted, but a small smile quirked her lips.

'Doctor John Watson? My name is Doctor Suresh – I was handed Mr. Holmes' unusual case,' she explained in a soft Cockney accent.

'Nice to meet you,' John returned the smile and shook her outstretched hand before following her through the swinging doors.

'Mr. Holmes is really rather lucky. If you hadn't have returned home when you did, we'd be having a very different conversation right now. As it is, Sherlock is in very serious condition. I must thank you, too – for collecting those samples. We've been able to determine that the jam in the biscuits was laced with a potent species of Mistletoe.'

Doctor Suresh explained, leading him to a private room within the ICU.

John swore quietly and gave the younger Doctor a tight smile as she excused herself.

'Just press the call button if you need anything,' she called softly over her shoulder.

Sighing heavily, John slumped down in the bedside chair, eyeing the pale form laid out before him. To occupy himself, he flicked through the Sherlock's chart, noting the amount of blood lost and the medications being used to flush the Abrin from his system.

'Jh'n…'

The Doctor almost didn't notice the soft exhalation of his name, but when he turned to look at his friend once more, he was greeted with a half-lidded, quicksilver gaze.

'Hey Sherlock – there you are,' John whispered, reaching up to brush the curls from his brow.

The detective frowned, reaching up to remove the oxygen mask – only to have his movements halted by the doctor.

'Easy does it, you're not in any state to be removing medical equipment,' John scolded lightly.

'Wh't happened?' Sherlock asked, letting his arm fall to his side.

John slumped further into the chair and scrubbed a hand over his face.

'You scared the shit out of me, that's what happened. Biscuits laced with Mistletoe – you we're puking blood by the time I got home.'

Sherlock's gaze widened minutely, but a small smile shortly took over.

'See what happens when I decide to eat? I get poisoned…maybe it's a sign?'

John shot him a glare but snorted nonetheless.

'Shaddup, you bloody clot. Seriously, though – that was not…pleasant to come home to.'

Sherlock softened and reached out, lightly tapping John's palm.

'Accept my apologies, John – it was not my intent to ruin your evening.'

John closed his hand around the finger and squeezed firmly, giving a little sniff.

'Yeah, well…just don't do it again you great berk – no more eating biscuits unless Mrs. Hudson and I shove them in front of your face.'

The Detective smiled tiredly.

'Of course, John.'

* * *

 **Another one that was originally going to be something else! Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it!**


	14. Nightmare

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Drama/Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ K +

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 _ **Guest Character:**_ Mycroft Holmes

 _ **A/N:**_ Continuation of Chapter 6 - Fear

 **N is for Nightmare**

 _John is badly shaken from his ordeal – Sherlock is not as much of a Sociopath as everyone thinks_

* * *

Mycroft greets the pair softly as the pair slide, injured and weary, into the backseat of the waiting car. John is silent; his bloodied fists are tight as they rest in his lap; eyes glazed and empty as Sherlock gives his brother a brief nod of thanks.

The trip back to Baker Street is a long and uncomfortable one and Sherlock sits closer to The Doctor than is strictly necessary, but no one comments on his proximity.

It's late and the street is dark and quiet when the car stops outside of 221B.

John is so tense that Sherlock can feel the tremble of every taut muscle vibrating against him. He reaches out slowly and folds a hand gently over a mangled fist.

'We're home, John.' He murmurs quietly, hoping for verbal acknowledgement.

' _Good_ ,' the Doctor's voice cracks and he climbs slowly from the vehicle after his friend.

Surprisingly, Mycroft follows – swinging a large backpack over his shoulder – such a mundane action for someone wearing an impeccably pressed suit.

Sherlock gives him a questioning look and the elder Holmes shrugs, but doesn't offer further explanation as the youngest of the trio opens the main door swiftly.

John shuffles in behind the detective and allows him to assist him up the stairs. He's so distant, it's almost like he's catatonic and Mycroft feels a pang of something that resembles _sentiment_.

When they enter the flat, Sherlock immediately steers the older man to his armchair and drapes a blanket over his rigid shoulders.

'Tea, Mycroft.' He mutters. It's not a request and the eldest doesn't see at as one, but, he obeys, moving to the kitchen after divesting himself of the backpack.

Sherlock crouches on the living room floor and very gently massages the doctor's fists until they unfurl.

'John? Can you hear me?' The younger man queries softly, rotating John's arms to inspect the gouges on his wrists.

'Yeah, 'course I can,' Watson replies hoarsely, his breath shaky. He's in shock, eyes puffy and bloodshot - but dry.

Sherlock hums and leans over to drag the backpack to him, the head injury his first priority.

'Have you any dizziness or nausea?' He asks, opening the bag and digging around for the necessary items. He slips on a pair of nitrite gloves, barely glancing at his brother as he returns with a tea tray and a bowl of warm, salty water.

'Yes to both,' John replies after a few minutes. 'Bloody hurts.'

He smirks a little and closes his eyes as Sherlock gently wipes the blood from his face.

'I'll kill him, you know? One day – the police will have finally found a body that I put there.'

The doctor opens one eye and looks at his friend, taking in the look of concentration as he edges closer to the gash on his temple.

It's amazing, John thinks – how much Sherlock has grown. How much this _sociopath_ has come to mean to the Doctor. How much he loves the man, all jokes aside.

Tears gather in his eyes at the sudden image of Sherlock lying dead before him; and his next inhalation comes out as a sob. Mycroft sits in the dark and watches the exchange.

Sherlock ceases his ministrations and curls his fingers around John's trembling hands.

'It's alright,' he murmurs. 'I'm here.'

The Doctor sniffs, opening his eyes and offering his friend a nod to proceed.

It's a slow process, tending to the wounds – and Sherlock is gentle but thorough. John isn't broken yet, but it's only a matter of time before it catches up with him. They finish their tea in silence and the siblings manage to be civil to each other – Sherlock even thanks his brother as the elder Holmes takes his leave.

Once the door closes, John sighs and stands, moving towards the sofa – blanket clutched around him.

'Play something. Please?' He asks quietly, slumping across the cushions and resting his head against the armrest.

Sherlock obliges, turning his back and playing a soothing melody on his violin until John succumbs to exhaustion.

* * *

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock falls asleep in his chair. He was meant to stay awake – to keep a weather eye on his friend, but he was tired too.

A ragged scream wakes him up some time after midnight and he jumps quickly to his feet – crossing the living room with a stumble.

John is thrashing on the sofa, whimpering and groaning – tears wetting his cheeks. It hurts Sherlock to see him so. His Dear Watson.

'Wake up, John,' the young man urges, gently tapping his cheek. 'It's ok, I'm here – please wake up.'

It takes a bit of coaxing, but suddenly John lurches upright and vomits in his lap, sobs increasing in intensity.

' _Sherlock…_ Oh _Christ,'_ he gasps, clutching his chest as it heaves.

The man is pale and shaking, sweat beading his brow as he breathes through the pain and fear of their ordeal. The detective hushes him gently, cupping his hand around the back of his neck and squeezing tightly.

'John? Would you like to take a bath?' Sherlock asks softly, his palm moving down to rub soothing circles at the small of his back.

'I-I killed you,' he stammered, swallowing thickly. 'You were in so much pain and you _begged_ me to end it…'

Sherlock tutted and reached out for John's hand, pressing it against his chest.

'You didn't. I'm right here – _alive_. John, please…'

The detective, normally out of his depth when it comes to emotional displays; removes the soiled blanket from John and pulls him close.

John breaks _completely._

It's possible that there are still traces of the drug in his system, exacerbating the emotions that are already there, but Sherlock has never witnessed something quite as _painful_ as the way John is fisting the fabric of his shirt. The older man – the soldier who has nerves of steel; the doctor – who puts Sherlock back together – sobs, heaves and _chokes_ his distress with his face pressed into the Detective's shoulder.

'S-S-Sherlock,' he stutters out through trembling lips. 'I c-c…' a shuddering breath gets cut off by another sob.

He tries again.

'I _can't_ ever lose you.'

The Detective is equal parts stunned and flattered – possibly also a bit horrified. He's never particularly cared for his life – he chases criminals to get high…

Now, though…now he has someone else to think of; someone that would break if he were gone.

It's utterly _inconceivable_ – but there you have it.

Sherlock holds his friend close; soothes him – cards his fingers through wiry grey-blonde hair – and acknowledges that he has a wonderful gift.

In the morning, they will not speak of it – John will make them tea and toast, Sherlock will probably refuse to eat and things will go back to normal, as it were…

Now, Sherlock will be the friend John deserves and in the dark, he will show this magnificent man much he is appreciated.

How much he is loved.

* * *

 **Get me a** _ **bucket**_ **…I don't know where that sap even came from!**

 **Please review – could be dangerous ;p**


	15. Overdose

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Drama/Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ K +

 _ **Character:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 _ **Guest Character:**_ Irene Adler, Greg Lestrade.

 **A/N:** Written as a slightly AU version if ASiB – The Woman is a _bit_ more unpleasant. Who knows what she injected Sherlock with? My head cannon is that it's Chloryl Hydrate. Also, I apologise for the delay. Real life, jobs, bills blah, blah, blah

 **O is for Overdose**

 _Irene Adler accidentally overdoses Sherlock, but isn't very apologetic about it._

* * *

Sherlock was bewildered, and slightly panicked upon feeling the painful slide of the needle as it entered his arm – then forcibly removed.

'What? What is that? What?' He demanded shakily, curling his hand around the throb in his bicep.

He turned back to The Woman, suddenly wobbly on his legs – only to be knocked off balance by a sharp slap across the cheek.

'Give it to me, now. Give it to me.' Irene demanded almost desperately, holding out her hand – eyes wide and feral.

'No.' The Detective slurred, vision blurring as he stumbled back.

'Give it to me.'

'Argh! No.'

A wave of severe nausea hit him unexpectedly and he dropped to his hands and knees. The weakness in his limbs was frustrating. It was just Transport – he would persevere.

'Oh for goodness sake,' The Woman drawled with exasperation, taking her riding crop and gripping it threateningly.

'Drop it.' She ordered, whipping it across his bruised cheek.

His hold did not loosen, despite the drug coursing through his veins. The need to expel the contents of his stomach was close to overwhelming, but he swallowed it down and tried to scramble away from the Dominatrix.

'I. Said. Drop. It!' she growled, punctuating each word with a sharp slap of the crop.

Sherlock fell back onto the hardwood floor – the phone slipping from the loose curl of his fist.

'Ah, thank you dear,' Irene said, her thumb racing across the number pad. 'Now tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. Not for blackmail…just for insurance.'

The world was blurring together now, even as he fought to stay conscious – flashing lights invaded the darkness every time he blinked. This _woman_ was no longer making sense. What was he doing here? Why did he feel so…limp?

'Besides,' Irene continued, 'I might want to see her again.'

Sherlock tried valiantly to rise, but he only managed to get his upper body off the ground before Irene pushed him back down with little effort.

'Oh no, no, no, no, no,' she hushed, running the crop gently across his cheek. 'It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it.'

He tried to draw breath, but it was a shaky effort and just as exhausting as trying not to throw up.

'This is how I want you to remember me...the woman who _beat_ you. Goodnight Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

It was then, that John – Dear Watson, entered slowly – looking confusedly at the woman.

'Jesus! What are you doing?' He demanded, his gaze turning worriedly to his friend. His limbs were rigid as he tried to fight the urge to sleep.

Irene looked from Sherlock to John, biting her crimson lip seductively.

'Oops…It seems I may have gotten a little bit… _excited_ ,' she sighed. 'He was only supposed to sleep for a couple of hours – but it looks like I misjudged the dose.'

John bent down to check the syringe, painfully aware of Sherlock's struggle to draw breath – but he needed to know what it was The Detective was currently overdosing on.

'Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit – it makes for a very unattractive corpse,' she said, sitting daintily at the window.

'What's this?' John demanded. 'What have you given him? Sherlock?'

The Doctor crouched by his friend, visually checking vitals and pupil reaction.

'I would say he'll be fine, but we both know that may not be the case. Good thing you're a Doctor,'

John ignored her for a second, as he gauged Sherlock's level of consciousness.

'Sherlock, can you hear me?' He asked worriedly.

He could, but for some reason – his ability to respond was narrowed down to grunting. John's face was blurring above him, colors swirling and colliding.

Then suddenly, it was like he was underwater – the sound of continued conversation was muted and distant – almost like his ears were blocked. That was when everything was lost to him.

* * *

As Irene abseiled from the window, wearing naught but Sherlock's Belstaff – he turned, only to see the detective's eyes roll back into his skull.

'Sherlock, mate?' John queried, rushing back over to check the man's pulse. It was fast and erratic, his breathing wasn't much better. The Doctor tried to bring him around with a gently slap to the face, but was rewarded with a gargled breath.

Feet pounded on the stairs, but they were ignored as John attempted to roll the trembling man into the recovery position.

'What the _hell_ is going on here? I've a report of shots fired – John?' It was Lestrade, initially angry, his voice dipped into concern upon seeing Sherlock's prone form.

'He's overdosing – injected against his will.' John relayed, gently easing two fingers down the man's throat to clear it of vomit.

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. 'This is familiar territory for me, I'm afraid – how's he doing?'

'Pulse is erratic, breathing depressed. He's only just lost consciousness but I don't know what he-'

A strained grunt caught John's attention and quite suddenly, Sherlock went rigid, spine curving backwards – he began to convulse.

'Ah, shite,' Greg swore, grabbing his radio and heading into the hallway.

The Doctor acted quickly – with his fingers against Sherlock's pulse, he reached over for a cushion and eased it beneath the seizing man's head. There wasn't much else he could do but wait and try not to be emotionally affected.

Lestrade returned seconds later, a concerned frown furrowing his brow.

'Ambulance is on the way – how long now?' He asked, keeping his distance so the Doctor could work.

John checked his watch. 'Two minutes so far, but the spasms are abating – he should be coming out of it shortly.'

Not thirty seconds later, Sherlock fell limp with an exhausted sigh, lids fluttering before opening partially.

'J'hn?' He slurred, reaching out with trembling fingers. 'Don't feel good.'

'I know mate, just relax – there's an ambulance on the way,' John replied gently, cupping a hand around the back of his neck.

'Kay,' Sherlock replied softly – almost childlike as he reached out to clutch at John.

The Doctor was taken aback by this comfort-seeking reaction, having never witnessed it before.

Greg stepped closer and crouched by John.

'Hey kiddo, how are you holding up?' He asked, drawing the younger man into his arms.

Sherlock returned the embrace, much to John's shock.

'This is _bizarre_ ,' he muttered, watching as Sherlock burrowed further into the hug.

'He used to get like this, when he was on the gear.' Greg supplied softly. 'After a seizure, he'd get overly emotional and seek comfort where he could find it. It was me, usually – but sometimes Mycroft. Only people he trusts. Never remembers after, as far as I'm aware.'

John felt his heart squeeze as Sherlock turned to him expectantly.

'You great bloody berk,' The Doctor chastised softly, allowing the younger man to curl against him. 'Sociopath my arse.'

Greg snorted. 'No…I had someone assess him based on his profile. He's on the Autistic scale – mild Asperger's, they reckon. Could be that he's suppressing a particularly traumatic childhood memory too.'

John nodded – suddenly the reversion to an almost childlike state made sense.

The Detective looked up at him with glazed eyes, swimming with unexpected emotion.

'Gonna be sick,' he slurred, turning away swiftly to throw up – before pitching forward, unconscious once again.

The Doctor caught him before he landed face first in the mess.

The two men sat in silence, keeping a wary eye on their friend, relaying his condition to the Paramedics when they arrived.

* * *

 **Not terribly happy with this one, but you win some – you lose some.**

 **So grateful for the responses – it really makes my day**


	16. Perforation

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Drama/Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character:**_ John Watson

 **P is for Perforation**

 _In which someone leaves a note for Sherlock & John is the unwilling messenger_

* * *

The flat was dark when John returned to 221B, not entirely surprising in of itself – but certainly weird. While it was common for Sherlock and himself to be gallivanting around London until all hours, Mrs. Hudson (despite _not_ being their housekeeper) usually turned some lights on once it got dark so no one went arse over tit on the stairwell. The doctor shrugged, assuming that their landlady was out, and dug around in his pockets for the keys.

He took the stairs carefully, gripping the banister as he ascended but stopped short on the landing. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he stiffened. No matter how long he had been out of the service, he could still sense danger when it was imminent and right now his body was screaming at him. John lowered the shopping onto the landing quietly and edged his way up the remaining stairs, careful to avoid the creaky ones. The landing door was open, which was another cause for concern, but he crept his way in to the living room nonetheless.

The attack came quickly and from behind.

A strong hand curled around his mouth and just as he twisted his body to dislodge his attacker, he felt the sting of cold steel slip into the flesh of his side with alarming ease.

He inhaled sharply at the onslaught of pain, but somehow managed to keep his legs beneath him.

A hot breath passed his ear and John bit back a whimper as the intruder spoke.

'Doctor Watson…I would appreciate it if you could pass on a message to Sherlock Holmes. If you could tell him that Mr. Montague came calling, I really would be most obliged.'

John grunted as, with a final, _brutal_ twist, the blade removed with a wet _schlick_ and tossed aside, clattering noisily against the linoleum. 'Have a pleasant evening, John.'

Then, he was gone.

It took a few seconds for John's brain to catch up with his body and with the realisation of physical injury, pain slammed into him with the force of a speeding cab – white hot and insistent.

It occurred to him, that while he was a doctor – the pain and vertigo was distracting him from following procedure and he only remembered to put pressure on the wound when realised he could feel _hotwetblood_ dripping from his torso and soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

He remembered vaguely, that Sherlock was due back from a case at some point that evening, but the thought fled when his side gave a particularly nasty throb. A cold sweat beaded his brow and with some effort, the doctor stumbled his way to the bathroom. It was where his kit was – he could do something, at least, until he recalled what he had to do next.

If he remained conscious for long enough.

The hall tilted violently and John heaved, splattering the floor with sick – before shrugging it off and continuing on his way.

The bathroom door was open and with slippery fingers, he fumbled for the switch; blinking rapidly in the sudden light.

Well, _shit_ – he thought distantly, peering down at the alarming amount of blood, coating his fingers and the side of his beige cable-knit in _redredred._

Bit not good then.

John sunk to the floor, his back sliding against the cool tile, and with trembling fingers, peeled his jumper from the wound.

Really, **really** a bit not good.

There was something he should have been doing. Something vital…but already, black spots swarmed his vision and just before he slipped away, he could have sworn he heard the front door slamming shut.

* * *

Sherlock was in a right snit when he returned to Baker Street. The windows were dark, which meant no one was home – which in turn, meant no tea and no fire.

He shivered from the cold and let the door slam behind him as he stomped up the stairs.

Surely John should be home by now – unless, of course, he found another useless, _boring_ woman to take out. Muttering under his breath, the Detective shoved the door to the flat open, flicked on the living room light…and froze.

His nose twitched, the smell of copper – _**blood**_ – invading his senses. He peeked cautiously into the kitchen and tried to ignore the curious clench of panic that suddenly overcame him.

A bloody kitchen knife discarded on the floor, scarlet handprints smeared down the hall and a puddle of vomit on the way to the bathroom.

It didn't take a Consulting Detective to figure it out.

'John!' he called, unaccustomed to the feeling of utter _terror_ boiling in his gut, but racing down the hall nonetheless.

The door was open and when Sherlock stepped in, he was, for a moment, positive that John was dead.

Slumped against the wall, the smaller man was far too pale for someone still living, his jumper and the top of his jeans were soaked through with blood.

Sherlock felt the moisture in his eyes about the time his throat clenched shut.

'John?' He croaked, falling harshly to his knees beside the prone form of his doctor. The detective pressed two fingers against the Doctor's pulse and almost choked on the relief at finding a pulse.

Not dead yet – but close to, if he didn't act quickly.

He shrugged the Belstaff off his shoulders, tugged John's ruined jumper away from his side and pressed the garment against the ghastly hole in his side.

John jerked into consciousness with a strangled cry, chest heaving at the sudden onslaught of pain.

'Easy,' Sherlock instructed, his voice wavering as John gagged and threw up again, blood dripping from his lips as he spat.

 _Internal Perforation_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully.

'Sh-sh…' John was trying – he really was. 'Sherl…'

The younger man groaned, tears spilling unbidden from his eyes as he reached into his breast pocket for his phone.

He dialed Lestrade – two birds, one stone.

'Get an ambulance to Baker Street, _now_.' Sherlock demanded, thumbing the speaker and putting the phone aside to offer some kind of physical comfort to the man writhing on the floor.

' _Sherlock, for Christ's sake-'_

'John's been stabbed, he's bleeding internally and will be dead in less than half an hour if you don't hurry the bloody hell up!'

Greg swore vehemently down the line.

' _Ok, shite – I'll be there shortly. Ambulance too. If he's conscious, try to keep him that way, yeah?'_

Sherlock didn't bother answering, turning his attentions instead, to the man below him.

John's lids were drooping, but the older man shook his head in an attempt to stay awake.

'Sher…'

The sound of his name being gargled so _painfully_ ; was nearly enough to send him over the edge. After this was over, the Detective was _never_ going to let John out of his sight again.

'John, _John_ …don't you _dare_ ,' Sherlock warned, watching in horror as John's bloody hand reached out to grasp his own.

'Sh- _lock_ …'s been an _honour_ ,' he managed, lids fluttering rapidly.

' **No** _ **, no**_.' Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth. 'You are _not allowed_ to do this. You don't get to _swan_ into my life, make me _feel_ things and then bloody go and _die_. You have _ruined_ me, John Hamish Watson…you gave me a heart…' the younger man dipped his head, heaved a shuddering breath and continued in a strangled whisper, 'you gave me a heart – please, _please_ …don't take it away…'

John tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist and pulled him closer, just a touch.

'You…are a bloody _manipulative_ sod,' the doctor chuckled weakly; his cobalt eyes dull with pain. 'You… _fixed_ me and I _love you so terribly mu-ch…_ so…I will _try_ my very best…to stay.'

Sherlock nodded rapidly, unaware of the hot tears and of John's shaking red fingers brushing them away. His hushed assurances. The comforting words.

Losing John would _destroy_ Sherlock…so the doctor, _soldier_ , fought on and managed to hold onto consciousness, clutching Sherlock's hand desperately, until the Ambulance arrived.

* * *

Greg risked a glance at the younger man next to him, clutching an orange shock blanket in his fists and shaking so violently, the DI thought he would shatter. He had arrived at Baker Street to an uncooperative Sherlock, snarling and lashing out at the Paramedics who were trying to separate him from John.

The doctor was in _desperate_ need of surgery and a blood transfusion, and it took Greg several minutes to talk him down – only to end up with a lapful of Sherlock, sobbing his not-so-sociopathic heart out. Many hours and almost as many terrible coffee's later, the pair sat silently in the family waiting room.

Sherlock noticed the DI's worried glance, but didn't snarl or bite – much to Lestrade's surprise.

Instead, he sighed, leaned back and met the older man's gaze.

'Could I please have a cigarette?' He asked quietly and with genuine politeness, his puffy eyes pleading. He had long since cleaned up, using the nurses showers – but he kept glancing at his hands as if the blood was still there.

Greg wouldn't refuse.

''Course you can, mate. Let's step out huh?'

Twenty minutes and three smokes later, a nurse bustled from the front doors of the hospital – looking flustered.

'Family of John Watson?' She called, eyeing the two men – smoking illegally on hospital grounds.

Sherlock tossed the butt aside and all but lunged at the nurse.

'What happened? Is he ok?' He demanded, almost sounding like normal.

The young nurse beamed. 'You must be Mr. Holmes – Doctor Watson warned us about you when he woke up. He's asking for you. Room 42b in the private wing – off you go!'

The Detective dashed away, barely hearing anything. John was _alive_!

It took him far too long, in his opinion, to get to his Doctor – but when he opened the door and spotted the older man, upright and mostly awake, Sherlock dropped onto the nearby chair and pressed his face against John's curled hand.

'You kept your promise…' he murmured, feeling the heat in his eyes building again.

It was _abhorrent_.

'Yeah, 'course – couldn't very well pop off after your little speech. Such a demanding prick you are, forbidding me to die. Although not all together – Sherlock?'

Sherlock's face was hidden, but John could tell by his posture and the moisture pooling in his palm, that the younger man was crying. Moving his other arm carefully, he reached up to comfort his friend and fell asleep with his fingers tangled amongst inky locks.

* * *

 **Ohhh I almost did it – almost turned it into a death!fic.**

 **But since I'm a Watson girl – I couldn't bring myself to do it.**

 **Review please…off you go!**


	17. Quarantine

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Drama/Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character/s:**_ Sherlock Holmes & John Watson

 _ **Secondary Character:**_ Mycroft Holmes

 **A/N: Alright, alright! I won't kill anyone – geeeez, relax guys and enjoy. This one was inspired by the NCIS episode "SWAK", which I also don't own…**

 **Q is for Quarantine**

 _221B is put under Quarantine when a letter arrives containing a suspicious powder_

* * *

It started with an envelope – or – more specifically, the contents of said envelope.

Addressed to, in flowing cursive, _The Tenants of 221B Baker Street;_ there was a kiss on the back, where scarlet lips pressed against the elegant Bohemian stationary.

Sherlock assumed it was from an avid female fan. John was slightly more suspicious.

Despite protests, the Consulting Detective tore it open eagerly…then froze as a puff of white powder billowed from within, coating the bewildered pair.

It could've been anything, really - from talc to chalk dust; but with Sherlock's inane ability to antagonize all and sundry, it was doubtful.

The Detective seemed to be of the same opinion, and dropped the envelope like it was on fire. Pulling out his phone and dialing Mycroft, probably – he dashed to the windows and closed them tight.

After a moment frozen in shock, John thought it probably best to divert Mrs. Hudson from coming up for the foreseeable future.

* * *

The hours following were a flurry of activity. The duo were bundled into the shower together, and instructed to disinfect themselves and each other as thoroughly as possible before changing into matching scrubs. Their current outfits were to be incinerated, which was unfortunate for Sherlock's expensive Armani suit.

In the meantime, their living room had been divested of all furniture and transformed into a quarantine tent, complete with UV lighting (to kill any airborne remnants) and hospital beds. Neither man bothered to ask how Mycroft's goons managed to complete their task in an hour.

Blood samples were drawn by medics in clean suits and the envelope was dropped into an airtight hazards box; to be whisked away for analysis – leaving the pair sitting awkwardly on their beds, with nothing to do but stare at the clear plastic that surrounded them on all sides.

* * *

It was three days into their confinement, when John noticed that his flat mate wasn't acting as he ought. There had been no declarations of boredom or demands to see lab results, as John expected. The man had been mostly still and silent, despite the dragging boredom that came with having all your belongings confiscated. Upon close (and subtle) examination of the younger man, John began to notice the pallor of his skin and the way his chest rose and fell with exaggeration, like breathing took effort. Whatever that powder was, it had infected Sherlock – the doctor was certain of it.

Unsurprising really, the way the man treated his body – but it still concerned John immensely, considering he was beginning to feel like shite himself.

On the evening of the fourth day, when they were finally alone, John broached the subject.

'You're ill, aren't you?' The doctor queried softly, rolling himself off the bed and approaching the younger man.

There was a moment's hesitation, before Sherlock drew a shuddering breath and replied.

'I do…believe…I am, Doctor,' he admitted with strain, a pronounced rattle punctuating his sentence. No wonder he hadn't been speaking – John would have caught on immediately.

The Doctor felt his stomach drop, but his face remained calm as he collected a stethoscope and thermometer from the cabinet separating their beds.

'What are your symptoms?' John asked gently, resting his palm against Sherlock's brow – frowning at the warmth he found there.

'I am…experiencing…headaches, muscle weakness,' he paused, pressing a knuckle into his sternum with a wince. 'Chest pain…and…difficulty taking…full breaths. How are you faring?'

The doctor shrugged and warmed the bell of his stethoscope in the palm of his hand. 'All of the above, but it's not that bad yet. I take care of my transport, unlike _some_ people.' He replied, a slight grin taking the heat out of the words.

The wet rattle was worrying and as Sherlock took his first deep breath as instructed by the Doctor, he broke into a fit of congested coughing.

'Easy there,' John soothed, reaching for a plastic cup and raising the man's bed so that he was upright. It didn't help and the coughs continued, wracking the man's slim frame until he was trembling and gasping for breath. He removed his hands from in front of his mouth and visibly flinched at the sight of red, speckled across his palm.

It was then, with impeccable timing, that Mycroft showed up in a clean suit with a grim look in his eyes, which flashed with concern as he looked upon his younger brother.

'I take it you've…got news,' Sherlock managed to croak, finally able to take a sip of water.

'You assume correctly, brother mine, however – I believe Doctor Watson also has an idea of what's going on.' The older man turned to John with a brow raised expectantly.

'Sounds like a nasty bout of Pneumonia to me,' the doctor offered, taking Sherlock's temperature and readying an oxygen mask for the younger man.

'Well, Doctor – you are half correct. The lab analysis of the powder has returned and found to contain a rather virulent strain of Y. Pestis – of which both your blood samples have tested positive.'

'Wait, _what_? The bloody _plague_ , Mycroft?' John hissed, remembering the term he completed in medical school which covered all forms of the infection.

'Pneumonic, to be exact,' the older man confirmed, his mouth a thin line. 'It doesn't seem to be responding to the usual antibiotics, which suggests the strain may have been tampered with. We have our best scientists working around the clock to come up with a solution – rest assured.'

Sherlock shifted in his bed and attempted to sit, only to be pushed back firmly by the doctor.

'What d'you think you're doing?' John demanded, pulling the sheets up higher and smoothing them out, trying to ignore the shaking of his hands.

He was scared, and rightly so – they could both die from this _very_ quickly.

'I can…help – I am a chemist…after all – if you could just…bring some lab equip-'

'Forget it, Sherlock.' The doctor growled, taking the man's medical chart and entering his notes. He was already suffering from a moderate fever and his blood-oxygen levels were _abysmal_.

'I should be…doing _something,_ while I still _can_.' He protested weakly, clutching his chest as another round of coughing sent his stats plummeting even further.

'I said bloody _no_ , Sherlock. You're going downhill too quickly and I won't be far behind. We need to _rest_.' John bit back, leaning the young man forward to rub his back.

His eyes were watering now, lips tinged blue as he wheezed between coughs, fingers fluttering desperately around his throat as he struggled to draw breath.

It wouldn't stop – he coughed until he gagged, crimson bile spluttering from his lips and out his nose from the force of it.

'Aww geez, easy Sherlock,' John soothed, wiping his mouth and nose with a cloth before turning to Mycroft. The elder Holmes looked uncharacteristically concerned, torn between offering comfort and running away.

He caught the Doctor's gaze and nodded, approaching the bed slowly as the shorter man struggled to roll his brother into the recovery position.

'How can I be of assistance, Doctor Watson?' The elder Holmes queried, hesitantly placing his hand at the small of his brother's back.

The physician tutted softly, fitting the oxygen mask over Sherlock's face as Mycroft reached over and absentmindedly brushed the dark curls from his brow. It was an unexpected display of affection, and the detective looked bewildered for a moment before leaning into the touch.

'Could you arrange some sedatives to be delivered? You may want to consider pain relief too – I wouldn't be surprised if he's cracked some ribs with the coughing,' John relayed, watching the younger man carefully as he blinked slowly, relief clear as the oxygen pumped into his lungs.

Mycroft nodded and gave the doctor a tight smile. 'Do get some rest yourself, will you Doctor? You're looking peaky and brother mine?' He met Sherlock's eyes, dull with exhaustion. 'Please behave – you are abhorrently unwell and I would not be happy if you surrendered to it.'

 _Please don't die_.

Strangely, the younger Holmes just nodded and offered his brother a small smile.

John knew then that things were _not_ good.

* * *

It was only several hours later, when breathing became difficult for the Doctor. Somewhere along the line, Sherlock's fever spiked dramatically and John spent the night monitoring him – injecting a cocktail of sedatives and painkillers so he could rest comfortably. The coughing began in the wee hours of the morning, sending him gasping and wheezing to the floor, gripping the edge of Sherlock's bed as his vision flashed. A cold hand brushed his knuckles and he looked up to see the younger man peering anxiously at him, still half asleep and very, _very_ ill.

John tried to haul himself up, but the lack of oxygen left him light-headed and almost immediately, he tipped backwards and sprawled gracelessly against the living room floor.

' _John_ ,' Sherlock rasped, his voice muffled by the mask. He had nothing – no energy at all to help the Doctor as his eyes rolled back, chest heaving and gasping like a fish out of water. It was the one time the detective was ever grateful of Mycroft's insisted video surveillance – because only several minutes passed before the medical personnel arrived, situating the other man in his bed and drugging him to the hilt. The detective passed out watching the nurses attending to his friend.

* * *

Mycroft watched silently as his brother and the doctor were intubated. Both were, distressingly unconscious and nursing high fevers, sick beyond words and comprehension. Thankfully, the latest update from the lab suggested they had found a combination of medications that would slowly wipe the infection out. He was awaiting its arrival to Baker Street. It was close, however – both men were positively grey, on assisted breathing and looking very much like corpses already. The elder Holmes pursed his lips and checked his watch impatiently, hoping the lab staff would arrive promptly. They needed the medication _desperately_ – they were so far into the danger zone that it was quite possibly too late to bother.

A presence beside him pulled him out of his dark thoughts and he turned his head to see one of his couriers clutching a large plastic box. It was handed off to the medical personnel in the tent and opened to reveal a dozen bags of clear fluid. They would need to administer the antibiotics intravenously to begin with, Mycroft realised as they began to set the pair up to a continuous drip.

The next few days would tell of the cure's success.

* * *

Sherlock came too slowly, his brain revoltingly slow. He still felt unwell – weak and sore, but not so _deathly._ He turned his head and peered toward the neighboring bed, almost choking in shock at how sick John looked. His hair was damp with fever sweat and Sherlock was certain the Doctor usually looked more peaceful when he slept. Grunting some - the detective rolled his weakened transport from the bed and crossed the floor slowly – panting by the time he reached his friend.

'John…' he breathed, reaching out to grip his shoulder. The doctor frowned and his lids fluttered as he woke with a shuddering breath.

'Lock?' He managed weakly, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. 'Feel like shit.'

The younger man snorted, but nodded in agreement.

'Not as bad though – what they've given us is clearly working. I can speak in full sentences again.'

John let his eyes drift shut.

'Tha's good…you should still…rest though. Never seen you so sick…'

Sherlock looked away almost sheepishly.

'I shall return to my bed…but I wanted to apologise. Had I been more cautious regarding the envelope, we could've avoided this…'

'Leave it…people make mistakes. You live and learn. Just don't go opening suspicious mail ever again, yeah?'

Sherlock smiled, patted his friend's arm and began the trek back to bed.

They were far from well, but they would get there.

* * *

 **Ugghh…I always knew "Q" would be tough. Hope it was enjoyable despite the difficulties I had getting this out. As ever, reviews are wonderful, precious things!**


	18. Ricochet

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character/s:**_ John Watson

 **A/N:** Thank you all so much for your reviews! Nearly at 100! This next one is a bit different – I thought I'd try my hand at writing this chapter from John's POV rather than my usual 3rd Person. Please let me know how I've gone writing as Watson!

 **R is for Ricochet**

 _Wherein John is hit by an impossible rebound shot & Sherlock shows his soft side_

* * *

Of all the dangerous criminals we've dealt with – it had to be the unstable ASBO kid with the stolen pistol who inflicted my second gunshot wound.

He was scared, shaking, _cornered_ – backing into a dark alley as Sherlock stalked forward, brandishing a pair of stolen handcuffs, oblivious of the teen's mental state.

' _Sherlock,_ ' I hissed, following the lanky git at a brisk trot. 'He's just a bloody _kid_ …reign it in a bit, yeah?'

As usual, my advice was disregarded and the Detective continued to advance menacingly.

'S-s-stay back!' The youth spluttered, gripping the firearm inexpertly, hands quaking. 'I know how ta use this!'

Sherlock snorted. 'Don't be _stupid_. You've never used a gun before in your life. I'm surprised you even know which end the bullet comes out of!' He sneered.

I gave him a sharp kick in the shin, which was also ignored and the man lunged forward to make his arrest.

Startled, the kid stumbled and fell back – his trembling finger squeezing the trigger as he hit the ground.

The gunshot echoed in the small space and I almost thanked God that the youngster couldn't aim for shit, when I felt the bullet hit with the force of a small vehicle.

Christ, I'd forgotten how much it _hurt_.

I went down with a grunt, clutching my thigh and immediately feeling the hot blood seeping through my tightly clamped fingers.

Sherlock turned at the sound of my pain and the kid took the opportunity to scarper – leaving the gun behind. The Detective rushed towards me and it was almost worth the wound – to know the depth of loyalty and compassion that lay beyond that cold mask. His normally sharp eyes were dim with concern and the firm lips were shaking as he crouched by me – hands fluttering uncertainly over mine.

'John?' He breathed, gripping my hand and lifting it to inspect the hole in my thigh.

' _Superficial_ ,' I ground out through clenched teeth. 'We can take care of it at home.'

There was no way I was hitting an A&E that late on a Saturday night, when Baker Street was practically around the corner.

It wasn't going to kill me, but it was bleeding some and the bullet was still lodged within the meaty flesh.

'John, I really think-' Sherlock protested.

'Well, _don't_ ,' I interrupted sharply. 'Just help me up and get me the hell _home_!'

His jaw tightened as he tried to stare me into submission, but I would have none of it. I was a _soldier_ and I knew how to deal with the manipulative little shit.

When he made no attempt to assist me, I removed my belt with minimum fuss and raised my leg with a pained hiss.

'Stop that,' Sherlock growled, snatching the belt from my hand. 'I'll do it.'

He slipped its length under my thigh and drew the sides together just under the wound.

'Tight as you can, if you don't mind,' I instructed firmly, smirking at the glare he threw at me while he worked.

It was all fine until he pulled the leather tight.

I flung my arm out to grip my friend's shoulder and cried out, my vision going white for several moments.

When my sight returned, Sherlock's expression hovered between irritated and concerned, but despite his unusual hesitance regarding home care, he hooked his hands under my arms and lifted me from the ground.

'Let's go, before the cavalry arrives,' I suggested, slightly shocked when Sherlock weaved a wiry arm around my back to support me.

I would text Greg later with the details, but I really didn't want to argue with the DI regarding my medical decisions.

Groaning slightly, I hopped forward, knowing that despite the short distance to Baker Street, it was going to take an age.

* * *

By the time we arrived at 221B, I was beginning to regret my choice to forgo the hospital. My clothes were damp with sweat and I was beginning to feel light-headed from the blood loss. I also failed to consider the seventeen steps that led up to our flat.

Surprisingly, Sherlock chose not to rub it in – but instead – murmured encouragement as he heaved me up, up and oh _God_ , it hurt like a bitch.

I looked down at my trembling hands and realised, with some annoyance; that I would need assistance from my friend to see to the wound.

It took ten minutes to climb the stairs and by the time we reached the living room, I was relying solely on Sherlock for support.

'Tea,' I croaked as he settled me on the sofa, pushing my armchair across the floor so I could elevate my injured leg. 'Please.'

The next several minutes were full of manic activity. The detective tore around the flat like a whirlwind, collecting my field kit, towels and…my emergency stash of pain killers?

'Oi! I hid that!' I cried in exasperation as Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen – hopefully to fix my cuppa.

The man snorted. 'Don't be dull, John. You know you can hide nothing from me.'

I heaved an exaggerated sigh, but secretly – I was quite impressed. Despite his mockery of my intellect, I knew I hid that kit damn well.

A warm mug, pressed into the hand that wasn't covered in blood, shifted my focus and in the light of the flat – I peered at the wound through the hole in my jeans. It was a little worse that I first thought – ricochets normally were – but it still wasn't concerning enough to convince me to call an ambulance. Without preamble, I got rid of the tourniquet, and gingerly dropped my trousers.

Blood gushed at the removal of the belt and an intense wave of dizziness tipped me forward, but the grip of Sherlock's hand on my shoulder stopped me from falling.

'I should disregard your wishes and call for an ambulance,' the younger man muttered, easing me back gently so I was resting against the cushions.

'You wouldn't bloody dare.' I retorted, watching blearily as he slapped on a pair of gloves…and reached for a pair of needle-nose pliers.

'This was all I could find, but I believe it shall be sufficient to remove the bullet. Would you like some pain relief now or after?' Sherlock queried professionally, reaching for the supplies lined up neatly on the coffee table.

His voice may have been exuding the upmost confidence, but I could see it in the tight set of his shoulders – he was nervous.

'Sherlock…you know I trust you, right? Implicitly, if you must know; so if you could just _get on with it_ so I can take some painkillers…'

The look he shot me was heartwarming and not without guilt – but he refrained from answering and got to work cleaning the wound.

I managed to keep myself in control as wiped the area with warm, soapy water and peroxide – but when It came time to remove the bullet, I stopped him.

'We must continue, John – I would rather not risk infection,' Sherlock admitted, reaching for the floor lamp and dragging it over to shine over my thigh. 'It will hurt a lot, but I will try to be quick.'

I clenched my jaw and nodded, looking away as the pliers drew closer to the hole in my leg.

The pain exploded immediately as the nose entered by flesh. I threw my head back with a gasp and clenched my fist, oblivious to everything but the agony. Sherlock slipped his hand into mine and twined our fingers, muttering conversationally as he worked. The words were lost to me, but the deep baritone reached my ears as I whimpered and he squeezed my hand gently in reassurance. My vision was fuzzy at that point, black spots threatening unconsciousness increasing as Sherlock opened the pliers to grip the bullet. I cried out that time, my eyes watering with tears of pain.

'Just a bit longer, John…I nearly have it,' the younger man assured gently, his eyes flicking up to meet John's.

'Sher…ngghh… _please_ ,' I was unsure of what I was asking, but he gave me a quick smile and the bullet slipped free, glistening red and bronze in the lamp light.

The pain dropped back and so did I – slumping boneless into the cushions, watching with lidded eyes as Sherlock tidied.

'Would you like painkillers now; or after I've sutured the wound?' Sherlock asked, reaching into my medical bag for a suture kit. I wasn't even going to question his ability to close a wound – he probably learnt how to do it off YouTube, or something.'

'Now,' I grunted breathlessly. 'Tea, too – please…before you do _anything_ else.'

Instead of commenting on my enthusiastic request for immediate relief, Sherlock drew the appropriate dose and slipped it gently into the crook of my elbow.

The relief was immediate.

My breath caught for a few moments and I sighed happily – allowing myself to fall into a restless sleep.

' _Sleep well, my friend.'_ I heard, just before everything was lost.

* * *

 **Please let me know what you think!**


	19. Subdural

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Angst/Friendship

 _ **Rated:**_ T for swearing

 _ **Character/s:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 **A/N:** Whooo! We hit the 100 mark! Thank you all!

 **S is for Subdural**

 _Sherlock takes a nasty knock to the skull and "Captain Watson" makes an appearance_

* * *

The man was big.

As in, unnaturally large; bulging muscles and a towering height that dwarfed that of the Golem, big.

Sherlock looked tiny in comparison, dodging and weaving the massive bulk that threatened to crush him. John felt useless, tied up as he was – against a sturdy pipe. He was working the bonds frantically, heedless of the blood pooling from his wrists – he needed to get to his friend, who was tiring rapidly.

The detective was like a rabbit, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and the giant couldn't get a hit in – so he decided, as most criminals do, to play dirty.

The doctor had no idea, where the broken steel bar came from – but there was no time to shout a warning as the beefy arm pulled back and swung it towards Sherlock in a powerful arc.

He knew it wouldn't be good and he didn't want to look – but it was like a train wreck.

It crashed into the side of Sherlock's head with a resounding thud – the strength of the blow lifting him off his feet and back.

A growl tore from John's lips, and despite the pain in his bad shoulder, pulled the bonds apart with a feral strength which would later astound him. He launched himself from the ground with a cry and raced toward the criminal, pulling his concealed firearm as he went. The shot echoed around the space and the behemoth's face imploded with a spray of red.

Messy, but no regrets.

Sherlock lay, unmoving – several feet away; the doctor tossed the gun aside and rushed over – noting the significant ribbon of blood pooling around his head.

Miraculously, he was conscious and blinking slowly, like he wasn't quite sure what happened.

'Sherlock? Can you talk?' John queried frantically, gently parting the sodden, inky curls around the injury site and hissing at what he found there.

'Nnnnggghhh,' the detective groaned, attempting to heave his body off the floor, but vomiting spectacularly instead.

'Hey, hey…no moving Sherlock. Do you know who I am?'

His eyes were glazed, and they flickered wildly before settling on the Doctor's concerned face – the left pupil so heavily dilated that there was barely a sliver of quicksilver.

'J'n,' he slurred incoherently. 'Wh' hapn'd?'

John pursed his lips at the garbled speech, but it was a relief to know he at least remembered his flatmate.

'You took a knock to the head, mate.' He replied calmly holding up his hand. 'How many fingers?'

Sherlock's gaze slowly moved from his face to the raised hand and watched it for a several moments before blinking in confusion.

'Tea?' he tried, with a frown.

Shite.

'Right, if you can – Sherlock, pay attention please, this is important – I need to ask you some questions.' The doctor slipped his hand under Sherlock's slim fingers. 'Tap my hand once for yes, twice for no. Got it?'

One tap. It was a start.

'Are you dizzy?'

A single tap.

'Blurred vision?'

Another tap.

'Do you remember why you're here?'

Five seconds pass.

Double tap.

Double shite.

Sherlock weakly gripped his hand and a small moan breathed through parted lips.

John brushed a thumb across his knuckles. 'Easy, it's alright mate – It's normal,' he soothed.

Tears, now.

'C-cn't thnk,' he panted, gaze slipping away and dancing across the room.

John sighed and used his free hand to press gently against Sherlock's furrowed brow.

'I know, that's normal too. I'm calling an ambulance, just stay awake for me, yeah?'

The doctor pulled his phone out and dialled 999, watching the younger man for any changes.

He rattled off the details, assured the operator that he knew what to do and as he hung up, Sherlock stiffened.

The loss of consciousness was somewhat expected.

The seizure that followed, was not.

John shrugged off his jacket and slipped it beneath the man's head, and waited for the convulsions to ease. He felt ill. There was so much that could go wrong – including brain damage.

The doctor was almost certain that Sherlock wouldn't want to live like that. The thought was too much to handle.

He waited and prayed for things to go their way.

* * *

Subdural Haemorrhage.

That was the immediate diagnosis from the Doctor's in A&E. Unable to tell if there would be permanent damage.

Emergency brain surgery.

They had better be careful. Sherlock's brain was his livelihood.

John slumped on a chair in the waiting room, swilling a foam cup of disgusting coffee and waited.

Mycroft showed up eventually, demanding information from every nurse who dare pass.

Then they waited some more.

Hours passed.

The elder Holmes noticed the tremble in John's hand and offered him a cigarette.

The doctor almost accepted it.

The sun rose and the waiting room emptied and filled in cycles.

At some point, John nodded off and was woken around noon by a petite nurse.

'Sir, are you the Medical Proxy to Sherlock Holmes?'

He stretched and nodded – searching for Mycroft only to find him absent.

'How is he?' The doctor cringed inwardly, waiting for the blow.

The nurse gave him a reassuring smile. 'The surgery went well, actually – which is surprising, considering the severity of the damage. Part of his skull was crushed inward and had to be replaced with a metal plate, but his brain scans look good. Although, they had to shave some of that gorgeous hair off, so that's a downside…'

John almost choked on his relief. 'Can I see him? Please?'

She helped him to his feet, noting his weariness and he followed her easy stride robotically.

'A Private room was organised with an extra bed. His _benefactor_ suggested you may need rest and would likely refuse to leave his side. Here we are.'

She left him at the door with an amicable pat on the arm and he stepped in, almost hesitantly.

The room was dim with the curtains drawn, but it was comfortable and not too sterile – which was something.

The left side of Sherlock's head was heavily wrapped in a swathe of bandages, a shocking sight – but his heartrate was steady and he was blinking groggily from the anaesthetic.

'J'hn?' He rasped, scrunching his face up in discomfort. 'You look terrible.'

The Doctor barked out a relieved laugh and slumped heavily into the chair beside Sherlock's bed.

'You're one to talk.' He bit back good-naturedly. 'How's the Hard Drive?'

Sherlock scowled. 'Everything's there, but it's all…scrambled.' He admitted. 'I expect it will take some time for everything to come back online, but it will.'

Thank Christ.

'What happened to Goliath? Did you catch him?'

John caught his eye and gave him a sheepish smile.

'Nah, I killed him.' He answered honestly. 'Shot him in the face.'

The mercurial gaze widened. 'Why? Why did you do that? You could go to prison.'

'He kidnapped me first, thanks. Self-defence and all that. Besides…he hurt your brain.'

'He…you…you killed a man for hurting me?'

'Oi…don't sound so surprised. I killed for you the first night we met. Did you expect I'd sit back and let him do more damage to you? He smashed your skull in.'

Sherlock gulped nervously and touched the bandage.

'I…really?'

'Yep. Patched up with a metal plate. I asked them to keep the bits of your skull they couldn't put back. Thought you'd like that.'

'John…I'm speechless…I…' he hesitated and looked away, squirming uncomfortably.

John offered a broad smile and dropped into the armchair by the bed.

'Shuddup…you're welcome.' The Doctor replied to Sherlock's awkward attempt at thanks.

The Detective returned the smile, a rare sight indeed – for anyone who wasn't John.

'Yes…well, clearly I'm fine – somewhat battered, granted. I shan't be doing that again.'

John brushed his palm against Sherlock's knuckle.

'No. You'd better bloody not.'

* * *

 **The hard letters are coming up. Good thing I planned ahead!**


	20. Torture

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Drama/Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T/M for violent scenes of torture

 _ **Character/s:**_ John Watson

 **A/N:** Once again, I thank all those who have reviewed/favorited this story!

 **T is for Torture**

 _Where John is captive in his own home and Sherlock is sent on a wild goose chase._

* * *

A sharp slap brought John back into awareness and he blinked rapidly to clear the black spots from his vision. His situation had not changed over the hours since he was accosted in his own home – The Doctor was still strapped to one of the dining chairs in the middle of the living room, still bleeding, still _hurting._

His head was pounding so fiercely, it was nauseating – but the concussion was the least of his worries. Straightening with a grunt, John met the dark eyes of his captor and gave him a feral, bloodstained grin.

Another backhand nearly over balanced the chair and jostled the overlarge shears that were lodged in the flesh of his bad shoulder, eliciting a strangled cry.

The intruder mimicked his smile.

'What do you _want_?' John ground out through clenched teeth, almost choking when the man's reply was to twist the shears viciously until the blade scraped against the bone of his clavicle.

'Oh…nothing in particular – I just want Sherlock to be aware of my capabilities. So far, he's been so wrapped up in this case that he's failed to see the purpose of my breadcrumbs.' He sneered in response, before taking a fistful of John's hair and using it to lever the chair back until it rocked on two legs.

The free fist was driving into his stomach – three jabs in quick succession – forcing the air from the Doctor's lungs.

'Fuck _you_ ,' John growled once his breath returned.

The trespasser laughed coldly and smashed his elbow into the Doctor's face.

Pain splintered his consciousness momentarily, but once his vision cleared – John could feel the hot blood gushing from his nose. He could _taste_ it dripping down the back of his throat.

A sudden flash disoriented him and he blinked rapidly – catching the moment the other man slipped the phone into his pocket.

'I've just sent our friend a little snapchat,' he explained nonchalantly, producing a clawed hammer from his tool belt. 'He'll be here soon, but I'll be long gone by then. I'm just going to have a bit of fun before I leave.'

'Go for it, _mate_ ,' John spat vehemently, catching his torturer in the face with a spray of crimson saliva.

Snarling, the man drew the tool back and swung hard, the blow landing squarely against his kneecap and John barely had time to cry out before the claw of the hammer dug into the tender skin on the underside of his knee.

The Doctor was panting now, exhausted from the pain and tuning out as the man continued his beating. He was on the verge of losing consciousness when he felt the prick and slide of a needle enter the skin at his jugular.

'This drug is highly experimental,' the invader explained casually. 'It is being developed by the Government as an interrogation technique. It affects the pain centre of the brain, increasing its sensitivity significantly, meaning…a paper cut would feel like a stab wound and so on. Give it a minute and I'll demonstrate.'

John clenched his teeth. He could already feel it – and he had been in agony before. It was overloading his brain, vision flickering – he hoped it would give out before the performance began.

'Another handy trait of this drug I'm sure you'll find fascinating – _Doctor_ Watson – is that, while you _feel_ like you're going to pass out from the pain; there is a compound that prevents it for quite some time. So I leave you with this.' He reached out and gripped the handles of the shears and drew them from his flesh, _slowly_.

Pain exploded like a supernova, flaying nerve endings and drawing a ragged scream from his throat – he longed for darkness to claim him, but the drug kept him agonisingly conscious.

When the shears were shoved violently back into the meat of his shoulder, he vomited in his lap from the pain.

His heart was slamming double time in his chest, and he could barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

'I'll be watching…if you or Mr. Holmes attempt to report this to the Police, in anyway – including, I'm afraid – any hospital visits, there will be consequences. I'll be sure to remind The Detective of this. Good day to you, Watson.'

Just before the man turned to leave, he kicked the chair over and John fell in slow motion, lights flashing in his vision as his head glanced the coffee table on the way down.

He spewed again, breathing raggedly and as he watched the intruder leave, hoped that Sherlock wasn't far away.

* * *

Sherlock had been at a Crime Scene on the outskirts of London when the picture came through. The image was taken in poor light, but the subject matter was unmistakable. John Watson – his _friend_ – bound to one of their kitchen chairs and beaten until he was almost unrecognisable.

The Detective growled and swept away from the scene, reading the message and already thinking of a way to find and _damage_ this person.

 _ **You will not call the Police.**_

 _ **No Hospitals.**_

 _ **Fix him yourself, or there will be consequences.**_

 _ **Anon.**_

Flagging a cab with ease, Sherlock left the Crime Scene without a word – silently hoping that John still kept his field kit correctly stocked. When he returned home, he would have his work cut out for him. Of course, he knew how to suture a wound and administer drugs, but he never had to do it on anyone but himself. He'd never cared for anybody enough to even consider it.

His knuckles were white as he gripped his phone tightly and with a snarl, ordered the cabbie to go faster.

'Alrigh' mate?' the driver attempted to engage in conversation as he frowned at his charge through the rear-view mirror.

'I'll throw in a hundred quid tip if you _shut up_ and get me to Baker Street. _On the double!_ '

The driver didn't need to be told twice.

As they pulled into Baker Street, Sherlock threw twenty pounds into the front seat and dove from the Taxi before it even stopped at the curb. Keys in hand, the Consulting Detective raced to the dark green door and opened it with shaking hands.

'John!' He called, bounding up the stairs two at a time. ' _John!'_

The landing door was open, and the coppery smell of blood mingled with bile invaded his senses before he even entered the living room.

He paused, for a moment – afraid of what he would find – until a groan of his name brought him to his senses.

Sherlock crossed the floor at speed, noting the abysmal state that John was in – bleeding, battered and obviously in agony – but somehow, conscious.

'Sh'lck…ughnnnnn… _please_ ,' he gasped brokenly, tears spilling from half lidded eyes.

The Detective crouched, his quicksilver gaze catching the shears first, before alighting on the puncture wound on the Doctor's throat.

'What did he give you?' Sherlock asked gently, surprising even himself by brushing John's hair back from his bloody brow.

'Dunno…makes it hurt… _more._ Can't…pass out. 'S keeping me 'wake.' He tried to explain and Sherlock growled.

'Is the field kit fully stocked?'

The Doctor gave a shaky nod.

Sherlock freed John from his bonds and eased him up, not at all expecting the shorter man to bury his face in fabric of his Belstaff to sob. Panic tugged at Sherlock's heart as he settled the ex-soldier onto the sofa. Despite the hesitation to leave his friend for even a moment, he jumped to his feet and tore about the flat in a state of manic fury.

He took thirty seconds in the bathroom to breathe deeply, to ease his heart into a steady rhythm – John required immediate treatment, and Sherlock needed to keep calm.

The Detective took a final, deep breath before snatching their extensive First Aid Kit from the cupboard and returning to the living room. The sight of John on the sofa, jaw clenched and shaking bodily from the pain, very near pulled the calm right back out of the younger man.

 _Focus._

Sherlock stood over the man that became his Best Friend and deduced.

 _Bleeding from the scalp; head wound – possible concussion._

 _Contusions and facial swelling; not immediately life threatening - next._

 _Medium sized standard garden shears, bad shoulder; deep enough to scrape bone and recently moved. Fairly dangerous - high priority._

 _Shattered patella and seeping gouges to the back of the knee – combination blunt/sharp object. Hammer?_

The remainder of John's injuries looked extremely painful, but non-threatening. Sherlock eyed his shoulder, watching as the Doctor reached to ease the ache with trembling fingers.

The shears would have to go first, so with a deep breath and a warning to his friend, he readied a towel, gripped the handles and pulled.

John _screamed_.

It was animal, _painful_ – and it tore at Sherlock, that it continued even as the blades slipped free and the towel was pressed against the wound.

'John, you _must_ keep calm. Easy now, deep breaths,' Sherlock soothed, hissing angrily as the towel grew wetter faster than it should have.

'Sher-Sher- _Sherl…_ s-sstoppp _ppp_.' John gasped, pressing his skull back into the arm of the lounge.

'John. _John_ …I must maintain pressure, I'm sorry. I'm so very _sorry_.'

He pulled the towel away for a quick look and growled. It was a messy wound – very deep and too mangled to stitch.

The Doctor was choking on his breath now, fisting his hands so tightly they turned white. Sherlock swapped the towels out and laid his hand against John's brow.

The man was sweating profusely from the intensity of the pain, and as Sherlock returned the pressure to his shoulder, John retched and vomited spectacularly, covering himself in sick.

'John... _shit_ …' Sherlock hissed, slipping an arm around his back and easing him forward. John shrieked at the touch, and the Detective continued to mutter soothingly to his friend as he eased the soiled clothes from the Doctor's trembling frame.

'Sh-Sherlock...drugs... _now,'_ John managed through clenched teeth.

'We should really wait…we don't know how pain relief will react to-'

'I don't _**care.**_ It fucking _hurts_ …I c-can't…' He swallowed a sob and at Sherlock's coat. ' _Please?'_

It barely took 30 seconds for the Detective to make a decision, and against his better judgement, prepared a dose of the strongest painkiller they had stock of. John really was lucky Sherlock helped himself to a five-finger discount the last time he was hospitalised.

John whimpered as the needle slipped into his skin, filling his blood with blissful numbness almost immediately. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, sighing with relief. Whatever Sherlock had given him was certainly working.

'That's the ticket…' he slurred quietly, blinking his tired eyes back open to peer at his friend. Sherlock was staring at him intently, his brow creased with worry even as the Doctor relaxed.

'John…' he breathed, reaching out with long fingers to brush his sodden hair from his brow.

'I'm okay, Sherlock…' John replied, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

The younger man scoffed and rolled his eyes as he prepared the dressings for his wounds.

'I think you'll find that is most _definitely_ not the case. As a doctor, I'm sure you're aware of the extent of your injuries.'

John gave a tired chuckle, reached out and gave Sherlock a friendly pat.

'Well, I'm okay at the moment – now that the pain is more manageable. I'll live, Sherlock – don't worry.'

Sherlock scowled. 'Once I find the person who did this to you and break his neck, you will be going to the hospital.'

John gaped at his friend for a moment, unsure as to how serious he was.

'I'm serious, John. No one touches you without consequences.'

His heart swelled at the admission, and all over again – he counted himself lucky to have such a friendship with Sherlock Holmes.

It would be a long road to recovery, but John was certain that Sherlock would be with him every step of the way…even if he _was_ an insufferable git.

* * *

 **Sorry for the wait guys! It's been quite a hectic month. I hope it was worth it – not long to go!**


	21. Underground

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Drama/Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for Violence

 _ **Character/s:**_ Sherlock Holmes

 **A/N:** This letter was difficult for me – so I improvised again. Go me!

 **U is for Underground**

 _Wherein Sherlock infiltrates an illegal underground fighting ring and John is not as stupid as believed._

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, John Watson is not a stupid man. It takes some degree of intelligence to obtain a medical licence and despite Sherlock's opposing arguments; his observational skills have improved somewhat since living with the Consulting Detective.

The living room is dark; but for the roaring fire in the grate – severe snow storms have knocked the power out, but John is nestled comfortably in his chair, nursing a fresh cuppa. His first aid kit is nearby; because now that he's figured it out, it's likely it will be needed.

It's taken him the better part of a week, but he's distantly proud that he's been able to get this far without assistance.

Sherlock had been acting strange – well – more so than usual an John made a mental note of these behaviours.

Observation one:  
For the past week, the detective had been leaving the flat at 9:30pm on the dot.

Observation two:  
He always returned exactly three and a half hours later – disappearing into his room without a word.

Observation three:  
He stays there for exactly twelve hours, before emerging for a shower and taking _his own_ dirty clothes to the laundromat.

It's the final observation, the quiet hisses of pain – uttered when he thinks John can't hear him – that really concerns the Doctor, leading him to conclude that Sherlock has been injured and his hiding it. More to the point, it seems to be a scheduled thing – worsening with every secret excursion.

From these small changes, John begins his research. He spends hours on his laptop, trawling the News sites for any possible open cases that could be responsible for the odd behaviour.

It was only that morning, just before the power went out that John found an article about a suspected underground fighting ring, operating in Central London.

It _had_ to be it – the precisions of Sherlock's comings and goings explained as such, and John would confront his friend about it on his return.

He glanced at his watch and took a sip of tea.

 _Any minute now…any minute…_

The Doctor didn't flinch as the front door slammed open, and then shut in quick succession. An uneven thudding on the stairs followed and John felt himself tense. What if he was _badly_ hurt? What if he was wrong? What if…?

The landing door was opened gingerly and John could hear the rustle of Sherlock's Belstaff being removed with care.

'How was the fight?' John asked casually, not turning but unable to supress a small smirk when Sherlock froze on route to his bedroom.

'John…' The younger man responded, his voice tight with pain and discomfort.

'I'm not an idiot, despite your beliefs otherwise.'

The Detective grunted.

'It seems you are far more observant than I give you credit for. What gave me away?'

John snorted and turned, trying to not outwardly panic at the state his friend was in. Sherlock's shirt was torn and bloody, his face bruised, swollen and impossibly grey.

'You never do your own laundry,' He responded calmly, rising and setting his cup on the coffee table.

Sherlock sighed, trying to morph his features from pain to mild disinterest.

'There's always something. Anyway – off to bed, see you later!' The young man turned towards the hall to flee, but John reached out and gripped the closest wrist, eliciting a pained yelp that he only felt _slightly_ guilty for.

'Not so fast Sherlock. I do believe I deserve some form of praise for being able to deduce your whereabouts. Sit, _now._ ' John growled.

'Doctor Watson, I assure you – I am perfectly fine-'

'No. Shuddup and sit down. It's not a request.'

The Detective slumped visibly and shuffled stiffly to his chair, sliding down with a poorly concealed groan.

The poor light wasn't ideal, but John could see enough to be concerned. Blood coated the side of the man's face, matting his dark curls and the rapid blinking spoke of visual disturbances that usually accompanied a moderate blow to the head.

Not waiting for permission, John divested the younger man of his ruined button-down and swore at the sight of Sherlock's torso. The bruising was so extensive, covering pale skin with a violent array of hues, blending from black to a nasty purple/green and interspersed with bloody grazes and a particularly nasty gash that was seeping pus.

'Jeez, Sherlock! You call me the idiot? What the hell were you thinking?' John hissed, warming his palms and pressing them against his ribcage and feeling it give almost instantly.

Sherlock whimpered at the pain the examination caused and John had to bite his lip to prevent another slew of admonishments. The man was clearly exhausted and in more pain than he cared to show, so the doctor kept his mouth shut and continued his investigation.

None of his injuries were life threatening on their own, but John was concerned about the warmth radiating from Sherlock's skin – despite the freezing weather outside. There wasn't much that could be done about it, most of the roads were closed on account of the blizzard, so getting to a hospital was out of the question.

John's thoughts were interrupted by an urgent groan and he stepped back just in time to avoid getting hit by a torrent of sour bile.

Clearly the moron hadn't been eating either, so a moderate to severe infection was looking more likely. John tutted in sympathy and carefully brushed a damp curl from his brow.

'Easy now mate. Let me take a look at that head, yeah?' He soothed, retrieving a penlight and shining it briefly into pale eyes.

His pupil reaction was sluggish, which was indicative of concussion – although that much was obvious from the excessive blinking and vomiting. Sherlock slumped down further, hissing quietly when John began to clean the blood away from his temple with warm, soapy water.

Through the blood, the Doctor discovered a ragged wound, deep enough to require stitches, and swore.

'Jesus, what did that bastard hit you with?' John growled, retrieving a suture kit from his bag and setting it down in favour of preparing some pain medication.

He was at loathe to give the man anything opiate based, due to the nature of past addictions – but he had no lidocaine left and he wasn't prepared to begin repairs, as it were, on Sherlock's transport without something to dull the pain.

'Knuckle Dusters,' he groaned in response, his lids drooping with exhaustion as John worked. 'It's mixed martial arts, and illegal to boot. Anything goes…got stabbed with a letter opener on Thursday…'

John's jaw was so tightly clenched; he could feel the muscles fluttering rapidly as Sherlock slurred his explanation of the case. The doctor almost told him to shut up, before he realised the man was babbling to prevent himself from falling asleep, thus minimising John's concern. The painkillers had kicked in instantaneously, and were turning out to be quite effective, which made staying conscious all the more difficult for the younger man.

'Why'd you do it? Go off on your own, I mean? I had no idea you had a case on – why keep me out of the loop?' John asked softly, his brow furrowed in the dim light as he stitched the gash above Sherlock's ear.

The Detective sniffed and tried to avoid John's gaze, but the doctor gently pinched the man's chin between his fingers and turned his face.

'You scare me, when you do this. You know that right? You're my closest friend and I hate seeing you hurt.' John admitted softly, not missing the way Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at the admission, before flicking away sheepishly.

'That's why…' he muttered under his breath.

'That's why, what?' John urged.

'That's why I didn't let you in on the case John…because you're my _only_ friend and I utterly _despise_ seeing you hurt. I knew that if I made you aware of this case, you would insist on doing the fighting because you're a soldier and have the training for it. I wasn't prepared to risk you on the chance that your opponent would choose to fight dirty.'

John chuckled, and slowly moved from wound to wound – noting Sherlock's embarrassed silence as he went.

'That was really sweet,' John said finally, smirking as Sherlock narrowed his tired eyes at him in a half arsed attempt at a glare.

'John, do shut up. I am not… _sweet_.' He slurred in response, trying to move away from the Doctor's gentle ministrations.

He pressed a palm to Sherlock's brow and gave him a small smile.

'Easy, Sherl…I won't tell _anyone_ , I promise. Just _please_ …for God's sake – next time, just tell me.'

Sherlock grunted his response, eyes slipping shut – and John's stomach clenched in panic. He was now fully unconscious and unresponsive, despite his best efforts to remain otherwise.

John scrubbed a hand over his tired face and began to tidy – he would stay up all night if he had to – to ensure the insufferable man that somehow became his Best Friend, lived another day.

* * *

 **Well, this one will clearly have to be continued, I think…I hope you enjoyed – it's a bit tamer than the others. Decided to give them a break. Review! Only 5 letters left - then I will start on the continuations!**


	22. Voltage

**BOYS OF BAKER STREET:**

 **An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort**

 _ **Secondary Genre:**_ Drama/Angst

 _ **Rated:**_ T for Medical Drama

 _ **Character/s:**_ John Watson

 **A/N:** Enjoy! 4 more to go!

 **V is for Voltage**

 _Where Sherlock leaves an experiment unattended and John gets a nasty shock_

* * *

It was past ten in the evening when John entered the flat. He had stayed back at work to complete some paperwork, and then got stuck in traffic due to a four-way vehicular incident, which culminated in a cab fare that near made him choke. Needless to say, he was in quite a foul mood and the state of the living room did _nothing_ to abate that.

'SHER _LOCK_!' he bellowed, eyeing the convoluted mass of wires crossing the floor of the room. There was no response from the Detective, and John growled impatiently, stepping over a taught stretch of wire and resting a toe on the small patch of carpet that wasn't covered by an electrician's nightmare. Knowing his idiot flatmate, it was probably live. He lifted his other leg, but a poorly timed muscle spasm over balanced him and he pitched forward, reaching out instinctively for something to stop him from face planting onto the living room floor. Unfortunately, the something turned out to be the wires – which he correctly assumed were live. John's breath caught instinctively as electricity coursed through his body, and moments later, he was airborne. He hit the wall with a dull crack, denting the drywall with the force of his collision and sliding down with a groan. Still partly conscious, John attempted to lever himself upright and failing as the sudden heart palpitations took his breath. God, he was going to have a heart attack – possibly – and judging by the grey mist edging his vision, he was well on the way to losing consciousness.

His next attempted to call for his flatmate came out as a feeble croak – which constricted his stuttering breath further, and sent an otherworldly pain jack-knifing through his chest. He reached up with trembling fingers, which were tingling so fiercely, it was like they didn't exist at all. The next inhale came with a sob, because it was really, _really_ getting difficult to breathe – which was sending him into a panic, systematically shutting down the medical part of his brain. All that was left was instinct, the soldier in him coming out in a way it hadn't since his return from duty. When it came to fight or flight, he'd go down swinging any day of the week; so with an animal grunt, Captain John Watson heaved himself off the wall and onto his feet – which was when Sherlock decided to show his stupid face. He burst from his room, his face a mixture of indignance and fury, ready to berate the older man for ruining his experiment. Sherlock had barely opened his mouth when John – who was behaving strangely – emitted an odd sort of growl, shocking the Detective into silence.

'Get…rid of that… _shit_ …right bloody _now_. I swear to…ohh…fucking _hell_ …Sherlock…I will _skin you_.'

Goosebumps raced immediately down Sherlock's spine, and that was how he knew he'd gone too far.

'John?' He speaks softly, stepping forward – and noticing the tremor in John's compact frame – that was all it took for him to begin deducing. _Grey pallor, perspiring excessively, hand fisted against his chest…_

John hissed, his brow morphing from rage to pain, teeth bared as he pitched forward, body spasming into seizure so quickly, he was foaming before he hit the floor.

Sherlock rushed forward, his throat tight with panic as he crashed to his knees and rolled John on to his side. 'John? Can you hear me?' Sherlock called, pressing his fingers against the man's pulse. It was far too rapid and as the Detective pulled out his phone, John stilled suddenly – before going limp with a terrifyingly _final_ exhalation.

'No…not _happening_. God, _god!_ '

Sherlock rolled the Doctor onto his back, knowing instinctively that he had roughly two minutes before he was alone again forever. Dexterous fingers dialled 999 rapidly, and set the phone on the floor, before straddling his friend unabashedly to perform CPR.

Between explaining the situation to the operator and pumping John's heart for all his worth, the younger man was tiring quickly. His face was damp with sweat and tears, arms straining and throat burning with demands for John to come back – in short, he was so far gone into his litany of no no _nonono_ – he barely noticed the miracle, when it arrived in the form of DI Lestrade, who raced up the stairs at the sound of Sherlock's disturbing cry.

'Shit mate, move – _move_!' Greg ordered desperately, pulling Sherlock away and turning his attention to John.

'Greg? Please…I,'

The DI almost sobbed himself at the sound of child-like desperation coming from a man normally so cold and calculating.

'Sherlock, take a breather – you poor bastard – you've earnt it. I'll take care of John, if it's the last thing I do.'

The promise was so earnest, that the younger man slumped against the wall in quiet relief, reaching out almost mechanically to flip the switch that got John into this nightmare in the first place. From there, he zoned out – even as the medics arrived to restart his heart, barely noticing the DI tugging him along. It wasn't until John was loaded into the Ambulance, that reality snapped back and Sherlock lost the plot. He screamed himself hoarse, fighting the Detective Inspector tooth and nail with demands to go with John. The behaviour bewildered Greg, because Sherlock had never been _this_ violent, even when high.

The most terrifying part was the panic attack.

In seconds, Sherlock went from violent to sobbing – clutching at Greg like a lifeline – gasping and clawing like a distressed child.

No words could bring Sherlock back to any semblance of calm, so against his better judgment, Lestrade called for a medic to have him sedated.

The fight left the man so quickly, the Detective Inspector grunted at the sudden dead weight and with assistance, bundled the now unconscious man into the back of the Ambulance alongside John.

The emergency vehicle sped away and Greg slumped against the patrol car, scrubbing a hand across his face. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

When John awoke, it was to the sound of excessive beeping and loud snoring. He groaned quietly and smacked his lips as he struggled to peel his eyelids apart. He felt hungover and his chest hurt like a mother, but he seemed to be mostly intact.

The snoring ceased abruptly and when John finally managed to blink his eyes open, he was greeted with the sight of a very dishevelled Lestrade, stretching painfully and leaning forward.

'Alright there, mate?' He queried groggily. 'You gave us quite a scare.'

The doctor grunted, and tried to sit; but was rewarded by a twinge of pain in his chest.

'Easy, you've got several cracked ribs.' The DI warned.

'Wha' happened?' John managed, accepting a cup of water from the older man.

Greg sighed. 'Sherlock left an experiment out and you got zapped,' he explained, watching John's face morph from curiosity to fury. Seeing the tirade about to begin, Lestrade held up a hand to stop him.

'In Sherlock's defence, he exhausted himself performing CPR before I arrived and he had to be sedated because the stupid git worked himself into a right state. He's still asleep and I reckon he's been punished enough.' Greg paused. 'Besides, he _did_ have the forethought to leave a warning, but it must've slipped off the door before you arrived.' He held up a piece of printer paper with a cartoon drawing of what looked like Anderson and Donovan being struck by lightning.

 _ **CAUTION JOHN; HIGH VOLTAGE**_.

John sighed, his anger draining immediately. 'Where is he?'

Lestrade jerked his head in the direction of the privacy curtain. 'His brother arranged it – felt it would be more conducive to his recovery. I have absolutely no clue what set him off so badly, but I'm pretty sure Mycroft knows…'

The Doctor shook his head and levered himself upright. 'Is he still sedated?'

'The dose should be wearing off fairly soon, do you need a hand to get over there?' The DI replied, watching John stubbornly get to shaky feet.

He parted the privacy screen, not overly surprised to see Sherlock semi-conscious and staring at the ceiling.

'Sherlock, mate?' The Doctor nudged his friend to draw his attention. The man hesitantly flicked his gaze to the older man before drifting lazily back to the ceiling.

'John…please accept my deepest apologies,' he offered flatly – but John didn't take it as being insincere. The man was clearly troubled and after losing it so epically, as Greg put it; and was probably trying to over compensate by acting like more of cock than usual.

'Sherlock…' The doctor reached over and splayed a bandaged hand across the Detective's furrowed brow.

'Leave it, John...my actions were unacceptable, you nearly _died_...'

John sighed, and dragged the chair over to Sherlock's bed. 'We nearly die all the time. I don't plan to scream or get angry – but _please_ just be careful. It would have been just as been to find you fried in that mess. I'm thinking of you too…'

Finally meeting his gaze, Sherlock smirked half-heartedly. 'I don't understand how you can live with me.'

The Doctor chuckled. 'Sometimes I don't either – but mostly, it's quite easy. You're my best mate and…'

'Yes John, enough of the sentiment – get some rest so we can both get out of here…' he trailed off and looked away sheepishly. 'I do mean it…I'm sorry you got hurt – that…must never happen again. To lose you would be…'

He didn't continue, but John caught the meaning and gave him an amicable pat on the shoulder.

Sherlock may be a dick most of the time, but he certainly had his moments.


End file.
